A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) (20 page)

Stoner dropped the keys onto the table, separated the key to the Transportation Station. Then one other. Looked harder, sat back. Reached again for his drink. ‘This one is for the club, Blue Cube. No idea what the others are. Interesting, huh?’

Shard looked closely at the remaining keys. Stoner looked at his companion. ‘You recognise these?’

A shaken head. A puzzled expression, unguarded.

‘They’re like . . . I should know what they are. But I don’t. Odd. It’s like, you tell me that they’re the keys to something and I go, “Oh, yeah!” Know what I mean? But I don’t know. Seen their like before, though. Seen a lot of keys, JJ. A lot of locks. Lots of locks locking lots of things. Churches to chastity belts. More likely the latter than the former.’

Stoner swung to a shadowed desk, seated himself in an atypically big, comfortable chair and pulled a keyboard from a drawer. Thought for a moment. Reached down to his right and powered up one of several desktop PCs.

‘Time to ask the technotwins what they’ve found, I think. Before we decide where we’re going to, we need to decide where we’re starting from. And this is a new-to-me PC, acquired from a seriously illegal source, so should be packed with someone else’s ID and cookies and handshakes and . . .’

‘Oh my!’ Shard faked his own exclamation marks. ‘You do not mean to imply, to suggest, that this is a stolen computer?’

‘Afraid so. I shall surely spend many ages in purgatory, atoning for my sins.’

‘If there was any justice, we should expect the heavy tread of the boys in blue as they come to arrest you; assuming that the previous owner of this stolen machine was a well-known purveyor of kiddie porn and that said plods will descend on you as soon as you log in. Or is it log on? I can never remember.’

‘No idea. The machine is supposed to be clean of all infections, viruses, that kind of thing. I assume that the PC cleaner would have removed anything particularly unpleasant or incriminating. But it is true that you can never tell, and that postulated higher powers do indeed move mysteriously where complex questions of morality are involved. For example . . . it’s certainly taking its own sweet time to boot . . . for example, consider the morality of using a stolen computer to assist in the apprehension of a serially murderous bastard . . .’

‘Christ, JJ. Father Jean the Confessor is one thing, Father X the swinging vicar of suburbia I can quite do without. I’ll put the kettle on. What are you looking at? Strange time to surf seeking adventure. A bit public for porn?’

Stoner ignored him. He wandered instead around the unfamiliar machine’s web browsers, selected the most familiar and used the world’s most popular search engine to locate the murder fansite. Entering it via that route felt more secure, although he had no idea whether it actually was. Shard drifted over, faux concern for screen privacy shining like fool’s gold.

‘Anything you’d prefer I didn’t see?’

Stoner shook his head, apologised for the screen’s poor resolution and slightly bizarre colours. ‘You’ve seen this, surely?’

Shard shook his head. Silence. Jocularity forgotten. Focus. ‘Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing, JJ?’

‘New to you?’ Stoner was puzzled. Shard confirmed that he’d not seen the site before, that the sight of the dead head was a new one. Not a particularly welcome sight, although he’d seen better sfx body parts at the movies.

‘Not sfx, sadly. This is my lost head. The head once attached to the body whose mysterious demise my master wishes me to investigate. As indeed I am doing, in the leisurely way folk find so very frustrating.’

‘It’s not my head, JJ.’ Shard displayed a little puzzlement. ‘Wrong race, colour, ethnicity. And size. Age too. Too young. Got any others?’

Stoner looked up. ‘You sure?’

‘Yup. How many others you got? And while we’re at it, where is this? What are we looking at? Murdermayhemandmore? What’s that? They’ve got strange tastes. Is that a real dead head? Colour’s not good. Who wants to just look at some sad fuck’s dead head anyway? Apart from some other sad fuck?’

‘And that, Tonto, is what we’re here to find out.’

‘Cheerful Charlie gave you this site, did he? Doesn’t seem his style, to be honest. Always thought he’d go more for the torture stuff. Wouldn’t have thought him a necro at all, except in the righteous satisfaction and gloating senses.’

‘He’s a very hard man with many strange tastes. He did give me the site. Access and info about it from the techno prisoners. You’re using them too, I believe? Saves on effort if we can avoid duplication.’

‘Those gothic weirds? No. Not much. Don’t really get on with them. Paralleled on a couple of cases, and I know you rate them, but they’re too up themselves for me. Too out only for themselves, not altruists like you and me.’

‘Irony at such a young age, Shard? Proud of you. Got the impression from Mallis that you were all in signals. Certainly seems to know what you’re up to and where you’re up to, too.’

‘Wheels within wheels within wheels, JJ. I am not faking this innocent expression. Behind the innocent expression lies confusion, plain and simple. What’s the website? What’s it for? Why are we looking at it? And whose head is that?’

Stoner clicked open a fresh window, another head. ‘Come to think of it, why is it there at all and how was it removed so cleanly from the rest of him? Beheading is not as easy as it looks in samurai movies.’

‘You’d know that, huh?’

Stoner smiled. ‘I try to be more subtle, myself. Chopping off heads is a little . . . statemental, don’t you think?’

‘More likely just mental. Doesn’t make a mark more dead, hacking off bits of him. But if we have different heads, presumably we have different bodies too? Time to compare notes, Kemo Sabe? Are we trusting one another yet?’

‘OK.’ Stoner left the window open on the last dead head, turned to his companion. ‘That’s not live any more. When I first saw it, the image was a live video. If that was still running in real time you’d be able to smell it from here. I’m not sure whether that means anything. The site? Techno prisoners are looking at it. It’s some sort of route, contact to the killer. Perhaps.’

Shard nodded. Stoner grumbled some more.

‘Mallis . . . Menace, I can’t tell them apart, gave me some idiot access code using this site’s forum, or something. I’ve not used it. Not even been there. A forum? What is that? Fuck’s sake. What’s wrong with talking coded nonsense from an anonymous Hotmail account? These geeks are all up themselves. Up each other. Who gives a fuck?’ He turned back to the screen. ‘I’d been planning on taking a stroll through the whole site, but you sort of interrupted that.’

‘Techno prisoners? OK. The geek freaks, right? Mallis and his strange friend. You’d thought they were working for me? OK. OK.’ Shard appeared to be a man confused. ‘Why everyone and
his dog insists on using fake names these days I dunno. Wish they’d not. Techno prisoners? Is that some kind of joke?’

‘OK, Mr Harding. As you say, Mr Harding.’ Stoner grinned.

‘Fuck right off, JJ. You know what I mean.’

‘The plan, in so far as there ever was a plan, was that Mallis and her (his? You sure?) mate would research the data they have and communicate using this very site. Which, as you can see,’ Stoner opened the appropriate window, ‘boasts an unregulated – well, it looks unregulated – forum for death freaks. I’ve not looked at it yet, so let, us, share . . .’ he tailed off, dramatically. ‘It’s going to take ages. Which clown thought this up? I’d expected a few sad fucks pretending to be killers, acting some childish online fantasy about how they’re great killers of our time. There are stacks of the idiots. I’ll need to scroll down the entries to see whether Mallis has left something for me. Amuse yourself. It might be an idea to take a run around the estate anyway. We’ve been here for quite a while. There might have been an invasion of humans.’

Shard walked over to inspect the motorcycle on its high bench in the middle of the workshop Stoner appeared to call home.

‘Never thought I’d see you on one of these things. Aren’t they bikes for bankers? Harleys? All style, no substance? Great looks, no go?’

‘Got three.’ Stoner was skimming through the entries, the names of the forum’s inhabitants, looking for Mallis’s mark. ‘They do what they do. That’s the only big one. The others are trail bikes; perfect for town and country, sir.’

‘Bit bloody obvious, though. “Here I am! Come look at me, Harley-Davidson Man,” surely. For one who likes to skulk about they’re a bit brazen.’

‘That’s the whole point. Part of it, anyway. Folk see the Harley, assume the rider’s some urban wannabee badass and ignore you. Even other bike riders ignore you. Perfect invisible machine. Like
the Transporter, only cooler. You can sit on any city street on that and so many folk see you that you are completely hidden. You can wear body armour, Kevlar kit, hide your face and carry all manner of offensive weaponry and no one, absolutely no one takes a blind bit. Perfect, as someone once sang.’

‘Three? Each one more . . . ah . . . menacing than the last?’ Shard was mocking, but not much.

‘No. The others are dull ex-army camo trail bikes. I keep one in town and one in the van. Perfect. Same reason as the big hog, but one hundred per cent disposable. Used them all the time before I . . . retired. Great for following, shadowing, surveillance, dodging traffic, riding footpaths through parks, one-ways, ratruns, the lot. Nice NATO specification, too; big carriers, even a box for a light rifle and an invisibility switch which kills the electrics apart from the sparks. Made for me. Love them. Dog-cheap, too. Fuck me.’

‘Not while there’s a dog on the street, JJ, what’s up?’

‘There’s a message from Mallis. Contact number. Time for a drive. Need to be away from here, then. Time for tea somewhere, plainly. Want to come? Any preferred destination? How’d you get here anyway? Helicopter? Ninja midget submarine? Something even more James Bond?’ Stoner shut down the PC, pulled leads from ports and plugs from sockets as he did so, shrugged into shoes and a jacket. Shard was ahead of him, standing by the motorcycle.

‘Is there room in that wagon of yours for my bicycle?’

Stoner stared. ‘Bloody hell. Fit bastard.’

20

AND I PRACTISE WHAT I PREACH

Stoner closed his cell phone. Sat, silent for a moment, looking at it. Looked up at Shard, who gazed back impassively.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘Well? That all sounded most amicable,’ Shard raised a mug of supposed coffee halfway to his lips, changed his mind and set it down again. ‘But you are so good at the paranoid security thing that I have no idea at all what you were both talking about.’

‘All. All talking. Both prisoners were talking with lucky old me. The marvels of modern science, so forth.’ Stoner looked around. They were alone, pretty much, the grim roadside eatery proving unpopular even with hurried men on the move. ‘Big, big coincidences. And they’re always trouble.’

‘How so, my man? Share with Shard, your local confessor.’

Even Stoner looked alarmed at that.

‘Identities of the heads are confirmed; details even now wafting to an email address I’d forgotten I had, so it should be decently secure. If I can remember its passwords. If not . . . Mallis no doubt knows them. Little of interest there. The interest’s in the coincidences. But I need to think a little. Do you know
anywhere which serves actual coffee? Even an entirely addicted caffeine cowboy could not survive on this piss.

‘OK. The deadheads are no-marks. Nobodies. Oh the jokes just keep pouring out. It’s a laugh a minute here. There is no reason for us to be involved. None. Apart from the fact that our employers wish it. They’re messy deaths, but the plods will probably catch their man eventually, and if they don’t it’s hardly a matter of concern to our masters and lords. What is a concern is that on each day of the dead there’s another death. Always close geographically, and always an alleged accident. Or an alleged natural cause. Of someone of interest. Someone too young and too useful to be dead. The latest is a plod, in fact, quite a senior one, offed in some spa hotel. Drowned in their posh pool while taking an early morning swim before power breakfasting, or whatever top cops do in spa hotels.

‘What’s interesting to the terrible technical prisoners is that so far there isn’t a messy death to match up with mister dead policeman. No dead head. If their theory is something like correct, there will be. My theory is that the other guy, the head donor, won’t be found until some clueless innocent cleaner goes to clean his hotel room, innocently.’

‘Then there’ll be shrieking, and running and shouting, and panic and plods all over. Just, exactly what we – that’s thee’n’me, JJ – do not want. Can your master hold the scene for you before SOCO whip in and stomp all over the place in their size fifteens?’ Shard sipped, with caution.

Stoner was almost amused that Shard was plainly intent upon them working as a team, a partnership. That would be the first time for a very long time, and although he preferred to work alone he was well aware that Shard’s skill set was perfectly complementary, and so long as Shard would accept that any partnership between them was not going to be a democracy, then it could work well.

‘It’s more likely that Mallis will catch breaking news on police channels about the death before my boss does.’

‘Have you asked them to keep an ear out?’

‘No need. Not with Mallis. He’ll call as soon as. If theory is good theory, then the next death will be close by the last death. Drive time. Do you and your bicycle need a lift?’

Shard smiled, nodded. They drove. But not far.

‘Here it comes.’ Stoner swung the Transporter to the side of the road, flicked on the hazard lights. Answered the shaking cell phone: ‘Yes?’ Then a long silence while he listened. Followed by a couple of affirmative grunts, and he handed the phone to his companion.

‘There’ll be a text any moment now with an address. Get that, memorise it, then climb into the back and dig out anything that looks a little like current police ID. There should be something in one of the racks, drawers, y’know. There’ll be a blue flashing light, too, somewhere. I always prefer the subtle, silent stealth approach.’

‘Messy again?’ Shard was all business.

‘Hard to say from the panic, but we’ll need to press on a little if we’re to get there before the blue boys. Pass the phone.’

Blue lights flashing from the windscreen, phone in hand, Stoner dialled the Hard Man, waited less than a single complete ring for the reply.

‘OK. So we have a body. We have two bodies. The first is the plod you know about, the second is a civvy stiff you don’t. Yet. But you will. As soon as you get notified about the second, the messy one, will you keep the law away from the scene? Thanks. I’ll be there in fifteen, need another fifteen in peace and quiet. No, I’ll be on my own. Why? There a problem?

‘OK. Can you do the delaying thing? It would help. No, I don’t know who he is. Do you have firm ID on the dead plod yet? OK. I’ll be arriving in the van with lights flashing. I’ll pretend to be
legal and lawful and things like that. Really could do without the real plods appearing while I’m there. No, I won’t touch anything, I just want to feel the scene before SOCO turn it into their own private playground. Thank you. I’ll leave the cell on.’

He closed the call, pocketed the phone. Grinned. ‘Here we go.’

‘Going alone, JJ? There are two of us. Hello?’ Shard looked expectant.

‘You’re the lone bicyclist, matey. The last scene I saw, I was watched. Know it.’

Shard nodded. Paranoia was a trade technique all its own.

‘I need you to watch the watcher. Find the fucker and follow him. No contact, no fighting, no being seen. You do that?’ Shard nodded again. ‘I’ll drop you a couple of blocks away. Use this number. All good, ’cos we’re here.’

‘Yep. I’ll call.’

The Transporter scraped the kerb and stopped to release its passenger. Shard piled around to the back, removed his mountain bike, vanished down an alley with a hiss of tyres and was gone.

Blue lights strobed from the Transporter’s screen, and Stoner parked it outside the unremarkable motel.

Flashing lights, an air of hurry and authority. A waved ID and a shouted demand. They all work together to open doors and gain directions to a hotel room. Milling. A tight knot of frightened folk. Stoner pulled them around him, told them to sit down, calm down and drink a few cups of anything they might find soothing. Instructions: stay away from the doors. Wait for the boys in blue. Keep their valued statements fresh by trying not to talk about what they might know, think or have imagined. Talk instead about the weather, the football, the government. Meanwhile, Stoner assured them, they were perfectly safe; the criminal was long gone. Even as he spoke the words, Stoner wondered whether they were true.

He ran up endless flights of endless stairs, found the offended room, slid the keycard and eased the door open with his toe; both hands free, senses switched on. Stripped off jacket and shoes and pulled on the familiar white paper suit and the white paper shoe covers and the white paper hat with the elastic and the light blue surgical gloves. He intended to touch nothing, nothing at all, but he also intended to leave no trace of his presence. No point in causing extra work for the real workers, after all.

Death. A reclining corpse. A man in repose. And in pieces.