‘Boy ends up torn to pieces in a public toilet.’
Will called up Colin Mitchell’s records. He found a similar set of notes, all logged by Dr Fiona Westfield as she methodically ruined Mitchell’s life.
Everyone thought Alastair Middleton was the only monster she’d made, but now it looked as if she’d been a lot more productive. Taking vulnerable children and twisting them into carbon copies of herself.
First thing Monday morning he’d get a team to slog through everything-see if they could spot anyone else Westfield had manipulated.
‘How many more of you are there? How many more of you did she make?’
She stands outside the incubation room, pretending to clean the window, but really staring at what’s growing inside.
It’s beautiful. Most of her new head is covered with skin: soft and pale and lovely. It hangs, suspended in its pouch of growth medium, surrounded by a nimbus of thick, golden hair. The face looks like she did when she was eighteen. Back when she was just beginning to experiment with dismemberment. Ah, to be young and innocent again…
The nose is slightly too big, the chin slightly too wide-the way it was before Daddy paid for that little round of cosmetic surgery. Helping nature on the way to perfection.
Her heart tingles as she watches her new face floating there. Tonight Dr Stephen Bexley will make sure she can speak, and eat, and look just like a real person.
Tonight she gets her human mask back.
She finishes wiping the glass and drops the rag back into the wheely’s cleanbox.
Time to make sure everything is arranged.
She pushes into the good doctor’s office, pulling her mop and bucket behind her. When he sees her he flinches. He’s lost weight over the last two days; dark circles shroud his bloodshot, grey eyes. He has always had beautiful eyes. It seems to take him a minute to figure out whether this is really her or just some brain-dead, menial slave. She sees the sweat prickling on his face. He knows who she is.
Dr Westfield pulls the datapad from her pocket and presses a button. ‘WELL?‘ it says in its flat, artificial voice.
‘Theatre Six: half past eleven.’ Stephen fumbles with the pens on his desk. ‘It’s the earliest I could get without anyone seeing.’
‘ACCEPTABLE.‘
He rubs a hand across his face. ‘I…I’m not sure that I can do the whole procedure on my own.’
He wants someone to hold his hand. Share the honour.
‘I mean…I mean who’s going to assist? Who’s going to handle the anaesthetics? I can’t do everything! What if something goes wrong?’ There are tears dribbling down his cheeks and she wonders if she’s pushing him too hard. Perhaps she should have sprung the operation on him at the last minute, instead of giving him time to worry. He’s obviously terrified for his family, not been sleeping. Panicking. Imagining his pregnant wife being skinned alive.
Hmm…Dr Westfield frowns. A miscalculation on her part: she needs him at his best, not exhausted. But it’s too late to worry about that now.
Her fingers dance over the keypad.
‘IF ANYTHING GOES WRONG YOUR WIFE DIES.‘
‘But I-’
She punches the ‘speak’ button again:
‘IF ANYTHING GOES WRONG YOUR WIFE DIES.‘
He buries his head in his hands and cries.
‘MAKE SURE EVERYTHING IS READY. WE START AT ELEVEN THIRTY PROMPT.‘
She steps back from the desk and stares at him. Snivelling like a frightened child. Disgusting. Weak.
When she kills him-after he’s fixed her face-she’ll be doing him a favour. A long, slow, painful favour.
‘DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME, STEPHEN,’ says the datapad in her hands. ‘YOU WILL NOT LIVE TO REGRET IT IF YOU DO.‘
He won’t live anyway, but sometimes a little hope can go a long way.
They stood beneath the awning of a burger van, sheltering from the pounding rain, eating cloned-meat patties and overcooked onions. George was tucking into his with relish. Brian ate his with tomato sauce. Will peered at his suspiciously, as if a cat had just crapped in it.
‘So what’s the verdict then?’ said Brian between chews.
‘I found out who Ken’s boss was six and a bit years ago. Other than that: nothing. It’s like they don’t even exist.’
‘How can there be nothin’? No one’s invisible these days, no’ even ministry spooks.’
‘They’ve got no Social records, nothing in the Services database and, other than one hefty bonus, bugger all in PayFund either. I couldn’t even find a budget allocation for Peitai’s project at Sherman House.’
‘And you’re sure they’re no’ corporate?’
Will nodded. ‘No private company’s got enough clout to keep something this big a secret.’
Brian growled and bit into his bun. ‘If they’re no’ on the official budgets, they’re dark funds. That makes ‘ em Special Ops, or SIS, or some covert department shite.’
George raised an eyebrow, grease glossing his chin. ‘Is that bad?’
‘Aye, them bastards don’t play by the rules. I used to go out with a guy worked Special Ops-this was years ago mind, just after they’d won the World War Cup: everyone wanted tae shag a soldier-he used to brag about what they did tae people what got in their way. Thought it wis sexy. We’re gonnae have to go real careful here: even if we get proof…They’ll bury us, literally.’
Will swore, risked a bite of his burger, and swore again.
‘We’re in way over our heads,’ said Brian, as Will looked around for somewhere to spit. ‘We’ll have to be a right sneaky bunch of bastards to get away with this.’
George took a mouthful of Irn-Bru, belched. ‘I’ve sent those brain samples off to the labs. Get them back tomorrow. At least then we’ll know what Peitai’s injecting the poor buggers with.’
Will stuffed the rest of his burger in the bin. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. ‘What about you, Brian?’
‘No one’s talkin’. I’ve twisted every arm I can think of; whatever they’re up to, they’re keepin’ it real quiet.’
‘Then all we’ve got is one mysteriously fake-shabby apartment, two corpses, and George’s chemical residue.’ Will scowled out at the rain, watching it hammer into the pavement hard enough to jump back to knee level. ‘There’s something else: Dr Westfield.’
Brian raised an eyebrow, ‘Oh aye?’ George just went on eating.
Turns out Alastair Middleton wasn’t the only one Westfield was grooming. Colin Mitchell and Allan Brown: she was their therapist too. I found case notes detailing how she screwed up their parents, then did the same to them. Twisted them till they went out and started killing.’
‘Shite…’ Brian shivered. ‘If she did three, who’s to say she didn’t do more?’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Bit of a coincidence isn’t it? Westfield was manufacturing killers, and now good old Ken Peitai’s doing the same thing. Only a bit more high-tech and-’
The alarm on Will’s mobile bleeped. He checked his watch: one thirty. Time to go spend the afternoon with Jo.
‘Got to run. Keep me up to date, OK?’ He dashed out into the downpour, heading for the nearest shuttle station.
‘Afraid we’ve had a couple of problems, sir.’
The room was dark, lit only by the screens that lined the central table. Ken’s boss didn’t say anything, just twisted the test tube round and round in his fingers, keeping the liquid inside from settling.
Ken Peitai kept his eyes dead ahead. ‘Mr Moncur and Mr Stevenson had a…lapse of judgement. They’ve been kinda negligent in their monitoring of our brood mother.’