Halfhead. Stuart MacBride B.

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СКАЧАТЬ put on his innocent face and said nothing.

      ‘And,’ she pointed at a holo pinned to the board above her desk—an elderly couple sitting on a floral couch, grinning at nothing, their eyes like glittering beads of glass, ‘these very rich, very dead OAPs keep turning up. Big chunk of money missing from their bank accounts. Look like they’ve been stuffed…It’s bizarre.’

      ‘Yeah, that sounds like Brian’s caseload.’ Will checked his watch: half ten. ‘You got anything urgent on?’

      ‘Nothing that won’t wait.’

      ‘Come on then: if we’re lucky George has done something with those severed heads. If we’re even luckier we’ll be in and out of there before he digs out his holiday snaps.’

      ‘Detective Sergeant Cameron! How nice to see you again!’ The plump pathologist slapped something purple and slimy onto a cutting slab, then wiped his hands down the front of his green apron. ‘What can I do for you this beautiful morning?’

      DS Cameron smiled at him. ‘Please, if we’re going to be friends you’ll have to call me Jo.’

      ‘Jo…’ George sighed. ‘Lovely.’ He stood there with a soppy look on his face for a moment. Then blinked and frowned, as if noticing Will for the first time. ‘Suppose you’re here for those halfheads?’

      ‘Where are they?’

      The pathologist sniffed. ‘You see what I have to put up with, Jo? No “hello”, no pleasantries, no nothing. Man’s got no manners at all.’ He dug a hanky out of his pocket and made splattery noises into it. ‘Still, I bear it because I am a gentleman.’

      He snapped his bloody gloves into a cleanbox, then wandered over to a large trolley, draped with a sheet.

      ‘Tada!’ George whipped off the cloth, revealing three rows of severed heads. Most of the skin was still wrinkled, the close-cropped hair making them look like mouldy prunes, but their foreheads were smooth and shiny. The barcodes perfectly clear.

      Jo squatted in front of the partially mummified features, stroking one of the heads. ‘Wow: how did you manage that?’

      ‘Ah…’ He winked at her. ‘That would be telling!’

      Will lent forward and sniffed. ‘Hand cream?’

      ‘Hand cream?’ George stuck his nose in the air. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, why on Earth would I use hand cream on severed heads? Hand cream…pffff.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s face cream. Been slapping it on since yesterday.’

      ‘George, you’re a star.’ Will grabbed a reader from the worktop behind them. There was something red and glutinous on the handle, but he didn’t notice until it was all over his hands. ‘Oh for God’s sake…’

      The pathologist shrugged. ‘It’s strawberry jam. I dropped my sandwich.’

      Will handed the sticky piece of equipment to DS ‘call me Jo’ Cameron and went to wash his hands. By the time he’d finished she was running the reader over the last head in the row. It made a reassuringly positive beep.

      She nodded at him. ‘Got ID numbers on all of them.’

      ‘Right,’ he said, drying his hands on the back of George’s labcoat, ‘now we need some names. Get onto Services: tell them to run a match.’

      ‘Hoy!’ The little pathologist snatched his coat-tails away. ‘You’re very welcome, I’m sure!’

      ‘George, you know I have nothing but the utmost respect for your phenomenal professional acumen.’

      ‘Bollocks. Jo, it’s been a pleasure having you again, feel free to pop in any time.’ George bent and kissed her jam and face cream flavoured hand before turning to Will. ‘But you can bugger off and never come back.’

       7

      Services ran their operation—and most of the city—from an imposing tower of foamcrete, pink marble, and green glass. An unattractive wart that had gone slightly mouldy.

      The elevator pinged, then the doors slid open. Twenty-seventh floor: Offender Management Department—South. Will and Jo stepped off the escalator into plush, beige carpeting. A medium-sized trundle case followed them, squeaking along on juddering caterpillar tracks as they made their way to the long, low reception desk. Six people manned the desk, all of them talking into fingerphones, the low murmur of their conversations barely audible through the sonic dampening. When a mousy blonde finally deigned to look his way, Will pulled out his ID and smiled.

      ‘Will Hunter: Network. I’d like to speak to someone in records please.’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir, but all those lines are busy right now.’ Her left eye faded from glossy grey to spider-veined pink, the iris shining, vivid and yellow as she took off her finger-phone.

      ‘I called earlier: case of severed halfheads need identifying. I have a list of the ID numbers, so if you could just—’

      ‘I’m sorry, sir, we can’t give out any details without formal identification taking place. All remains have to be signed over for identification.’

      Will nudged the trundle case with his foot. ‘That’s why we brought them with us.’

      ‘One second.’ The receptionist slipped the blue plastic sleeve back on her index finger, then pointed at her own face. Her owl’s eye went grey again, lights flickering in the depths. ‘Steve? It’s Marjory, listen I’ve got some bloke from the Network here and he wants some halfheads ID’d…Yes…Yes, I told him that, says he’s got them with him…’ She swung her finger around, pointing at Will instead. ‘…Yeah, that’s what I thought too…’ And then she was pointing at herself again. ‘OK, thanks Steve.’

      She dragged out a datapad and made Will sign half a dozen different forms in triplicate, then summoned a tattooed youth to take the trundle case away. As it disappeared through a door marked ‘Private’ she nodded at a small waiting area over by the floor-to-ceiling window. ‘If you’d like to take a seat someone will see you shortly.’ And then her eye went grey again, and she was off.

      Will settled into a chair that was a whole lot less comfortable than it looked, Jo easing herself down beside him. From here they had a perfect view of Glasgow’s main transport hub—shuttles, Groundhuggers, Behemoths, all in the process ofcoming or going. Little one-person Bumbles vwipped through the air, following complicated holding patterns, twisting and turning like flocks of starlings as a huge blue Behemoth slipped its mooring and lumbered up into the sweltering morning.

      Two minutes later it was just a distant silhouette against the dirty-yellow sky.

      DS Cameron, stretching out in her seat. ‘How long you think we’ll have to wait?’

      ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

      Fifteen minutes later they were still there.

      Jo turned in her seat and scowled back at the reception desk. ‘All they’ve got to do is scan the codes СКАЧАТЬ