Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

And he has told her so many things. So many secret, dirty, dangerous things.

Dr Westfield moistens the edge of a silk handkerchief and wipes away the little flecks of dried blood that sit in the corners of his eyes. The holes are hardly noticeable, she’s made a good job of it: a full-frontal lobotomy done the old-fashioned way. She tells him do a little twirl, showing off his new orange and black jumpsuit. Very smart.

‘Right,’ she says, ‘time to go.’

She takes the old man’s hand and holds out the other one for Mrs Bexley. Stephen’s wife looks nice in the grey outfit Dr Westfield bought her. It flatters that big, pregnant bulge. With a pretty silk headscarf hiding the patch of bare skinpaint where she was scalped. Her eyes are glassy and vacant as she shuffles into place. Drugged up, docile, and most import ant of all: silent .

Westfield leads her little family out of the flat, her travelling case trundling along behind. They walk, hand in hand, down the corridor and into the lifts.

‘Now then,’ she says, picking a stray dot of lint from the collar of the old man’s jumpsuit as they descend to the ground floor, ‘I want you to behave yourself out there. Always do what the nice people at the depot tell you and remember to rinse out your mop.’ The lift doors ping open and she smiles. ‘This is what happens when you interfere in someone else’s research. You should have kept your naughty little fingers to yourself.’ She tweaks his prominent nose. ‘Yes you should. Yes you should.’

But he doesn’t reply. He can’t.

She tells Mrs Bexley to go and wait for her by the front door, then guides Tokumu Kikan over to the janitor’s locker and pulls out a wheely-bucket and mop. It’s heartening to see the old man as he carefully fills the bucket with a mixture of hot water and detergent-just like he’s been taught-then he takes the mop and starts to clean the dirty grey tiles beneath their feet. He’s as happy now as he’ll ever be.

Her research is ruined. Kikan and Peitai contaminated the study with their heavy-handed amateurish methods. It’s worthless now, her children’s potential squandered: the point was to study serial killers as they developed in the wild, not churn them out like cloned burgers.

Never mind, she’s had a lot of time to think since the fun and games in the research lab. Mrs Bexley’s unborn child will be the first of a new breed-not manipulated third-hand through their parents, but taken directly under her wing. In a few months’ time she’ll be able to start all over again. A brand-new child, and a brood mother to breed more from. Exciting times…

With a spring in her step she takes Mrs Bexley’s hand and skips out into the freezing downpour. Glasgow is cold and wet, but it’s nice and sunny where they’re going. In just a few hours they’ll be sipping margaritas in the Southern Republic of the Newnited States.

Crossing the street she heads down to the nearest shuttle station, pausing only to drop a package in the post on the way. A little parting gift.

‘Will? You’ve got a parcel.’ Jo stuck her head around the kitchen door and frowned when she saw he still wasn’t dressed. ‘We’re going to be late for that funeral if you don’t hurry up!’

Special Agent William Hunter sighed and poured the last of his tea down the sink. He’d seen enough good men and women planted in the long walk to last him a lifetime. But Cat had fought alongside him, helped him rescue Jo. He owed her, even if she was a terror with a Bull Thrummer.

‘Come on.’ Jo threw his coat at him. ‘Are you wearing your medal?’

‘No.’ His demotion hadn’t hurt that much, not compared with getting Constable Cat MacDonald killed, but he’d felt like a fraud when they pinned that shiny bauble on his chest. ‘Not this time.’

He had to admire Jo’s resilience. She’d got over the events at Sherman House a lot quicker than he had, and he wasn’t the one who’d been tortured. She struggled into her jacket-the stump of her right arm waving about in random circlesas she fought with the sleeves.

Will pulled on his overcoat and helped Jo with the brass buttons on her dress uniform, trying not to get them covered with fingerprints.

‘Come on,’ she said as he started to pick at the wrapping on his parcel, ‘Take it with you, you can open it later. We have to go.’

The rain was like ice, bouncing off the circular headstones beneath their feet. Mourners huddled together for warmth beneath a drumming curtain of black umbrellas as the priest worked her way through the eulogy.

Standing off to one side Jo, Brian and Will watched as the sealed casket was tipped up on its end and slid slowly into the freshly dug hole. As it sank into the ground the assembled Bluecoats struck up Abide With Me , singing as yet another of their number was consigned to the cold, dark earth. At last the casket clicked into place and the priest dug a handful of dirt from the box at her side and intoned the ritual words:

‘Ashes to ashes…’

‘Jo,’ said Brian, ‘what did Cat do at that official function? Y’know, when she was pished?’

‘Hmm? No idea. Only met her a couple of times.’

Will frowned as six Bluecoats stepped forward, forming a circle around the grave. ‘She said you were her DS.’

‘Nope. I think she worked for DS McLeod.’

The roar of Thrummers filled the air, turning the heavy rain above the grave into freezing fog.

Jo shrugged. ‘I can ask if you like?’

The Thrummers sounded again and Will looked down at the order of service in his hands for the first time. There was a holo on the inside cover of a red-haired Bluecoat with freckles and squint teeth. Beneath it were the words: ‘CONSTABLE CATHERINE MACDONALD. GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN.’

Oh…shit.

He shoved the holo into Brian’s hands. ‘Look.’

‘Who the hell’s this?’ Brian stared at the stranger on the card. ‘That’s no’ Cat!’

Jo took the order of service from him. Checked. ‘Yes it is.’

‘Will…? If that’s Cat, who the hell was with us?’

Will didn’t say anything; he knew now why he’d recognized her.

He pulled the package out into the rain and fumbled it open. It contained two items: a note saying ‘SEE YOU SOON!’ and a human jawbone.

Without Whom…

This book has taken a hell of a long time to go from a first draft to the finished thing, and a lot of people have helped along the way. So I’d like to thank Phil Patterson, Luke Speed, Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Amanda Ridout, Allan Guthrie, James Oswald, and Christopher MacBride, for all their time and trouble. And believe me, I’ve caused a lot of trouble.

But most of all, thanks go to Fiona and Grendel, who’ve been putting up with this nonsense for years.