‘That’s because you’re her special little soldier.’
‘Aye, and my farts smell of rainbows.’ A scowl turned his features ugly. ‘Every time I see the old bag I get another impossible case.’ He shook his head. ‘She’s gettin’ her own back for what happened at the Christmas party. Did I tell you…’
Will listened to Brian rant for a while, nodding his head every now and then to pretend he was paying attention. Brian was wrong about Director Smith-Hamilton, yes she had it in for him, but her grudge went back a lot further than last Christmas.
‘What can I do for you Brian?’
‘Oh, right…It’s your new girl, DS Cameron.’ There was a squeaking noise and the background swooped past Brian’s head—probably swivelling his chair around—settling on a patchwork of old, two-dimensional photographs as he dropped his voice to a whisper, ‘She’s dodderin’ about this mornin’, looking like somethin’ the cat shat out. What the hell did you do to her yesterday?’
‘George found traces of VR syndrome in two bodies from Sherman House. Natives got restless when we went back to search the victim’s apartment.’
Brian blinked. ‘What do you mean, “when we went back”? You’re no tellin’ me you went with her!’
‘If it’s an outbreak of VR it’s out of Bluecoat jurisdiction. You know that.’
‘Sherman House…’ Brian’s face shuddered. ‘Jesus an’ the wee man. I mean, I find it hard enough and I was away with the fairies the whole time. Last time I bagged and tagged a set of Termies there thought I was going to pee myself…’ He trailed off. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘I lost Stein.’
‘Aw, Jesus.’ Sigh. ‘I’m sorry. Two in one week…’
Will changed the subject. ‘Anyway: DS Cameron?’
Brian’s round, pink face suddenly loomed on the screen, until Will was staring straight into one huge, magnified eye. ‘She doesn’t know I’m telling you this—and she’d probably throw a blue hairy if she found out—but she’s no doin’ as well as she’s kiddin’ on.’
Will nodded. He’d seen the look on her face when the mortuary techs wheeled Stein’s body away. The life of a Blue-coat wasn’t easy, but it was nothing compared to what the Network went up against every day.
‘Can you no’ get her to take some time off?’
‘Don’t know, Brian: she only started yesterday. If I send her home it’s going to look like I don’t think she’s up to the job.’
‘What’s more important? You lookin’ like a shite in a suit, or her being able to cope?’
‘Point taken.’
‘Knew you’d see sense.’ The image zoomed out again, showing off a big toothy grin. ‘Oh, and while I’m on, James wants to know if you’re free for dinner tonight?’
‘I don’t know if I can—’
‘Bollocks. My place: seven thirty. And bring a bottle of somethin’ drinkable this time, you tight-fisted bastard.’ There was a muffled sound from the room behind him and the picture jiggled around until Will was looking at DS Cameron. She was carrying two steaming mugs. Brian reached out and took one. ‘Thanks, that’s smashin’.’
‘Got you some biscuits too…’
Biscuits? First George, now Brian. Maybe she had a thing for strange little fat men?
Will shook his head. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’ He killed the link and went back to the paperwork.
The crime reports should have been interesting—high-tech transgression, murder, fraud, espionage, disappearances, kidnappings, hostile interventions—but somehow his team of agents always managed to make everything read like stereo instructions. He waded through as many as he could before near-suicidal boredom set in.
He dumped the last two inches of cold tea from his mug in the nearest sickly pot plant and headed for the fourth floor.
There was no sign of Brian in the tiny office, but Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron was at her desk, grumbling away at something on her screen. Her hair was even more fashionable than before—the tightly-wound bun sitting at a bizarre angle to accommodate the new bald patch. The back of her neck was a swathe of fresh skinpaint, the shiny pink surface looking out of place against her caramel skin. But what really grabbed the attention was today’s suit. It hadn’t looked too bad on Brian’s fingerphone, but in person it was…hard to ignore. Bright blue with a narrow, luminous orange pinstripe, orange buttons, and orange lapels.
Will stared at her. ‘What would you have got if you’d won the bet?’
‘What?’ She swivelled her seat around. Her eyes were puffy and tight lines feathered out from the corners of her mouth, but other than that she looked as good as anyone could dressed as a plastic of Irn-Bru.
‘Came past to see how you were getting on.’
She pulled her face into a smile. It didn’t go anywhere near her eyes. ‘I’m feeling fine, sir.’
‘How’s the neck?’
‘Bit itchy…other than that…’ She shrugged, one hand going to that patch of artificial pink. ‘MO gave me some blockers.’
Will pushed the door closed, then perched on the edge of Brian’s pigsty desk.
‘You know,’ he said, picking his words carefully, ‘when we go into hot zones we put our lives on the line, and sometimes the stress…well, it can do a lot more damage than you’d think. If you don’t give yourself time, it can creep up and really sink it’s teeth in your arse. And if it does that in the field, chances are you’re coming home in a plastic bag.’
DS Cameron’s brittle smile disappeared. ‘With all due respect, sir, I resent that. Just cos I’m a Bluecoat and a woman, doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart the first time things get shitty!’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Really?’ Her mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Well then, just what did you mean?’
‘I’ve been there, OK? I’ve done the whole therapy and counselling thing. And I’ve seen people playing it macho: refusing help. I’ve spoken at their funerals.’ He sighed. ‘Look, Jo, I’m just trying to make sure you’re not suffering in silence because you think the Network will think you’re weak if you don’t. I downloaded your file this morning: you’ve got the makings of a damn good agent, if you get the call. And if you don’t get yourself killed first.’
She blushed. Rubbed at her neck again. Stared at the carpet. ‘Thanks…’
Will nodded at the neat stack of printouts on her desk. ‘What they got you working
