The afternoon is more lucid. Thoughts are starting to stay in her head where she can focus on them, follow them. Plan.

Food will be the biggest problem. If she disappears, the man who looks like a pig won’t feed her any more.

She stops mopping, frowning at her reflection in the dirty water. Remembering soft-green walls, squeaky flooring, men and women in long white coats. Where every room smells like the stuff they put in the buckets. The smell of safety.

She’d have smiled then, if she had enough face to do it with.

‘OK,’ said Will as they pushed their way through the crowded lobby back at Network Headquarters. ‘What do you want to do now?’

‘String that Services shitebag up by his goolies.’ A gaggle of children in garish school uniform stopped right in front of them, so they had to detour past a bus party of OAPs ogling a Cézanne.

‘I meant about the investigation.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Lot of murders in that bit of town go unsolved. Thousands of potential witnesses, but no one ever admits to seeing anything. From the state of the body, I’d say whoever did it, this wasn’t their first time. Won’t be their last either.’

‘Pretty safe bet.’

‘I dumped all the crime scene data into the system this morning, MO’s pretty damn distinctive so we’re bound to get a match.’ She grinned, eyes sparkling. ‘Nice to have the resources to really go after a case like this for a change, instead of just handing it over to the Future Boys…No offence.’

‘None taken.’

They slipped into one of the staff lifts and punched the button for the fourth floor.

‘You know,’ said Jo as the doors closed, shutting out the noisy lobby, ‘I was wondering…You’ve got a kind of reputation-Urrrgh…’ She staggered, face screwed up in a grimace, teeth bared.

Will grabbed her, holding her upright.

‘Damnit!’

‘You all right?’

‘No…’ She stayed where she was-wrapped in his arms, eyes closed, breathing deeply. In and out.

Will looked down at the top of her head. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘Coffin dodger. Someone’s gone missing.’

It might have been the confines of the lift that made Will feel suddenly uncomfortable, or it might have been the sensation of Jo’s breasts rising and falling against his chest as she breathed. Whichever it was he could feel his temperature rising inch by embarrassing inch.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. ‘Thanks. They’re supposed to put out a warning on the comlink before they do a broadcast. Give us a chance to prepare.’

Will let go. Stepped back. Cleared his throat. Stuck his hands in his pockets, hiding his embarrassment. ‘No problem.’

‘Jesus.’ Jo shuddered. ‘Nothing like a transmitter going off in the base of your skull to put a shiner on the day.’ She rubbed a hand over the patch of shiny new skin at the back of her head. ‘Why they can’t just send the bloody signal out to the poor bastard they’re looking for, I don’t know.’

‘Is it always that bad?’

‘Caught me off guard that’s all. They broadcast the “come in number six: your time’s up” message to every Bluecoat in the city and the things in our heads jump about like it’s Hogmanay. Doesn’t matter if you’re number six or not. System was meant to be selective, only trip the locator in whoever’s gone missing, but the IT company fucked the installation up and we haven’t got the budget to fix it.’ She stopped and frowned at him. ‘You don’t have them do you?’

‘Nope: security risk. It’d be too easy to spot an agent when they’re undercover. Network doesn’t care if it can’t find our dead bodies.’

‘Lucky bastards.’

The lift arrived on the fourth floor with a small, metallic ‘ping’. Will slapped a professional smile on his face as the doors slid open, but left his hands in his pockets.

‘Well…I have all that lovely paperwork to get back to. Let me know how you’re getting on with the case, OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She snapped off a salute, turned on her heel and marched away.

As the lift doors slid slowly shut Will closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Bloody hell.’ He was definitely getting too old for this.

Six people sit around the dinner table: two men, three women and one little girl, all are dressed up in their Sunday best. Which is funny because it’s not Sunday, it’s Tuesday.

Their suits are all neat and clean, shirts ironed, ties tidily tied, shoes shined, party hats on their heads. Everyone is smiling. One big happy family. No arguments. No temper tantrums.

No one moves. No one says a word.

The silence is beautiful.

Full of love.

The sound of running water comes from a room off to the side, interspersed with snatches of VR jingles: Fruity Pops. Poppa Steve’s Family Pizza. CheatMeat-the tasty cloned treat. The singing isn’t loud: just someone entertaining himself, whistling along softly to the bits between the words. Whistling while he works.

Through in the bedroom there’s a stain, exactly eight pints of O rhesus negative wide. There’s another one on the hall carpet, next to the cupboard. The rest is slowly disappearing down the plug hole, in a froth of pink, soapy water.

And last, but not least, there’s the birthday girl. She lies curled up in front of the VR terminal, hands and feet tied behind her back, a wire in the back of her sinful head. She stopped struggling half an hour ago; now she just lies there, shivering and sobbing while a wholesome, computer-generated fantasy flickers inside her retinas.

Eighteen years old.

Filthy, dirty, impure…lovely…

She’s not as lucky as the ones sitting around the table.

For her death is still a long, long way away.

Outside, on the roof, the heat was overpowering. Three steps off the escalator and sweat was beading on Will’s forehead. Over to the west, clouds were beginning to form: the rains were coming. About bloody time. After the oppressive, drawn-out summer, it would be nice to come up here and just stand in the downpour. Let everything wash away. But right now it was like standing in a frying pan.

He hurried along the rooftop walkway, heading for landing bay twelve: where Lieutenant Emily Brand and a nice cold beer were waiting.

She was standing with her back to the hangar door; dress uniform replaced by a plain, concrete-grey jumpsuit, the sleeves knotted round her middle, showing off neon-red sports webbing, muscled arms and broad shoulders. He watched her pull a Shrike from the Dragonfly’s port weapons pod-shifting the heavy air-to-target rocket as if it were made of papiermâché.

She was every trooper’s fantasy: early thirties, five foot six, athletic, strong chin, freckles, button nose…Her team took great delight in winding up newcomers: fanning the fires of their ardour, knowing full well that Emily would only put up with so much before beating the crap out of the poor sod. The last one ended up with a broken arm, three missing teeth, and concussion.

Emily might scrub up well, but she was not the sort of person you messed with.

Will stepped into the shade of the hangar. It wasn’t that much cooler in here, but being out of the sun made him feel less like a slice of bacon. ‘It’s half five: where’s that beer you promised?’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, towards the Dragonfly they’d taken to Sherman House yesterday. ‘Help yourself.’

Will unlocked a hatch on the Dragonfly’s hull marked ‘WARNING: ENGINE COOLING SYSTEM’. A six-pack of brown plastic tubes nestled in a homemade hammock between the coils and the burner. It had taken Emily about two months to get it positioned just right. Too close to the coils and you got beercicles, too close to the burners and you got an engine compartment full of boiling foam and melted plastic.

He popped two loose from the mesh and threw one over.