well, well: an Assistant Section Director as I live and breathe. What’s th’ matter, Network?’ she asked, ‘You think us poor wee Bluecoats would screw it up without you here to hold our little handies?’
‘You asked for SOC support, OK? Urgh…’ He grimaced and spat: gritty saliva. ‘And for the record, I think it’s bloody ridiculous they cut your budget, again. How are you supposed to—’
‘Save it for someone that cares, Mr Assistant Section Director, cos I’ve had my share o’patronizin’ bullshit this month.’ She stepped aside and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. ‘In there.’
Will bit his tongue—fighting with her wasn’t going to get them anywhere.
On the floor behind him Private Dickson was groaning her way back to consciousness. He made sure she knew what day it was and how many fingers he was holding up before ushering the SOC team into the gents’ toilet.
It was a filthy room, the metallic smell of fresh blood adding to the oppressive urine reek. The tiles had been white once, now they were stained a dark cherry red. Bloated flies filled the air, drifting in fat, lazy circles. A couple of younger Blue-coats stood in the corner, keeping as far out of the way as possible. One of them was pale grey, shivering, and as Beaton and Stein started assembling the scanning booms, Will found out why. The smell was bad, but the sight was worse.
‘Was the body like this when you found it?’
A voice sounded behind him: ‘No, it was all in one piece. We hacked it up for a bit of a laugh.’
You know what? Screw this: if the Bluecoats wanted a fight, they could have one.
‘Right,’ he said, slowly turning around. ‘I have had enough of your lousy attitude. We’re here because we have to be, not because we want to be. You…’ Will drifted to a halt.
He’d been prepared for another blue uniform carrying a grudge the size of Peebles, but instead he was confronted with the most violently green suit he’d ever seen in his life. Its occupant was female, slightly taller than average, with skin the colour of milky coffee. Her hair was gathered up on top of her head in an asymmetrical bun—very fashionable. The frown she was wearing was almost as unpleasant as the suit.
‘Oh, I see.’ She crossed her arms. ‘What a shame you’ve been dragged all the way down here to play with the lower classes. What’s the matter, Network? Termite lives don’t count? This not white collar enough for you?’ Somehow she’d managed to clench her entire face.
Will’s voice never rose above a low growl. ‘We don’t want to be here because one of our team got blown apart yesterday. We don’t want to be here because right now we’re supposed to be placing him in the long walk, and I’m supposed to be telling his wife and his daughter what a great man he was.’ Will stepped forward, staring Ms Green Suit straight in the eye. ‘We don’t want to be here because this is not a Network job. But some bean-counting mincehead decided to slash your budget and give all the extra work to us, so here we are. And I do not have the time, or the inclination, to fight with you about it: I have a funeral to go to.’
She tilted her head to one side and studied him for a moment. The scowl slid from her face. ‘I see.’ She pointed at the cubicle done out like an abattoir. ‘Victim’s an I-C-one male. Roughly five foot eight, hundred and ninety pounds.’
Will opened the cubicle door all the way. The remains were slumped back on the toilet, chunks of meat and innards lying in sticky clumps on the blood-soaked floor, smears of scarlet and black all up the walls. The head was almost unrecognizable. ‘Wow…’
‘Chest cavity was split with a knife, at least eight inches long, probably serrated. No sign of the murder weapon on scene. Internal organs have been removed and slashed. The same chevron pattern is evident on both thighs.’
Will squatted down in front of the tattered body, peering into the emptied chest cavity. ‘Anything else?’
‘Teeth and jawbones were shattered by some sort of blunt instrument. There’s something in his mouth: think it’s his genitals, but I can’t tell for sure till your Scene of Crime bods are finished with the scanning. No idea what happened to his eyes.’
Hard light flickered through the low, stinking room as Stein and Beaton finally got the scanning booms set up. Any minute now it was going to get very noisy in here.
Will levered himself back to his feet.
‘You’ll agree,’ Ms Green Suit said, as he stepped gingerly over the cables snaking across the sticky floor tiles, ‘that the attack pattern looks frenzied, disorganized. Furious. I’d say our killer was white, male, aged between twenty-four and thirty-two. Slovenly appearance. Lives alone or with his mother. She’s got no idea what he’s up to.’ She didn’t need to say unemployed, on this side of the river that was a given.
Will smiled—it was the classic serial killer profile, straight out of the field manual. ‘I know this isn’t my case, but are you sure your killer’s disorganized?’
‘Course he is. Attack’s too messy for him to be anything else.’
Will pointed at the remains. ‘Look at the hands.’
She frowned. ‘What about them?’
‘The fingertips are pulped, so we can’t take any prints. The jaws have been demolished, so we can’t use the dental database. The eyes have gone so we can’t take a retinal scan. The only way we’re going to get an ID is if our victim’s got a record and his DNA’s still on file. If not: chances are we’ll never know who he was.’
Her lips moved soundlessly for a moment. Then, ‘So the killer must be organized enough to cover his tracks.’
‘At the very least.’
The scanning array gave a low rumble and a clank, then fell silent. Stein treated it to a brief bout of swearing and a good hard kick. The machinery started up again, the sonics grumbling and buzzing like a catarrh-filled geriatric full of wasps.
‘OK, people,’ Beaton flipped a switch on the side of the casing, ‘time to vacate the premises if you don’t want to be immortalized in glorious, invasive scanovision.’
They all shuffled out into the corridor, avoiding the hole in the floor, and waited for the scanners to do their thing. The low phlegmy rumble turned into a deafening whine—the closed door cut the noise a little, but not much.
The concrete particles were settling, coating everything and everyone in a thin layer of gritty grey dust. Private Dickson stood at the far end of the group, cradling her Bull Thrummer and nursing what looked like a pretty big grudge; glowering at the Bluecoat who’d treated her to that bout of electroconvulsive therapy.
Ms Green Suit leant over and said something Will couldn’t really hear.
‘What?’
‘WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL?’ She had to shout directly into his ear before Will could hear her over the scanners.
‘WHAT? CALL WHEN?’
‘WHEN YOU CAME BARGING INTO THE TOILETS. WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL AND LET US KNOW YOU WERE OUT HERE? IF YOU HAD, YOUR LASS WOULDN’T HAVE GOT HERSELF ZAPPED.’
Will
