The hospital mortuary was huge, all four walls dominated by refrigerated corpse pigeon-holes. A dozen post-mortem tables dotted the floor, stainless steel islands in a sea of cracked grey tile. Most of them were occupied, the bodies being taken carefully apart by teams of anatomical pathology technicians.

When the chief pathologist was finally satisfied that Will, Brian, and Emily were who they claimed to be, he handed their IDs back, nodded, and punched the case number into the console with long, delicate fingers.

The carousel pulled a bodypod from the huge collection that surrounded them, clicking the metallic sarcophagus onto an empty table.

The pathologist wrinkled his nose. ‘You may wish to hold your breath at this point.’ He popped the toggles, exposing what looked like an over-cooked side of pork with fragments of melted plastic fused to it. With a small cough the pathologist pulled out a metal pointer and began his monologue.

‘The skull has suffered severe structural damage, as have both arms and most of the upper torso.’ He used the pointer to flip the switch that turned the body. ‘As you can see most of the epidermis has been charred-extremely high temperatures-no doubt due to the fuel cell in the municipal transportation being ruptured upon impact. Primary cause of death was blunt trauma to the cranium, probably caused on impact. The other damage was almost certainly post mortem.’

Will looked down at the human barbecue and suppressed a shudder. It was unrecognizable.

‘You sure it’s her?’

The pathologist pointed at the charred head.

‘As you can see, the barcode tattoo on the forehead has been rendered illegible by impact and fire damage, but…’ He pulled a reader from beneath the table and slid it over the melted remains of the jumpsuit. It bleeped when he reached what was left of the breast pocket. ‘The ID chip is still intact. It matches the manifest.’

He twisted the reader, showing Will the display panel.

‘SAMPLE 4: ID: SH-O/D- 10286’

Will’s mouth went dry. ‘DNA?’

The pathologist raised an eyebrow. ‘There were sixty-two people in the bus that Roadhugger hit, Mr Hunter.’ He waved his skeletal hand, indicating the vast collection of refrigerated bodypods. ‘And that’s in addition to all the other deaths we have to deal with on a daily basis. You’ll appreciate that there may be a little bit of a backlog.’

Brian stepped forwards. ‘Aye, and you’ll appreciate that you’ll be in a world of shite if you don’t shift this one to the top of your fuckin’ priority list.’

The pathologist blinked. ‘I see…Well, I shall chase up the records department as soon as I get a chance and-’

‘I’m sorry, did I no’ make myself perfectly fuckin’ clear?’

There was a pause, and then the thin man pulled a little blue cylinder from his top pocket, slipped it onto the end of his index finger, and pointed at his own face. ‘Records.’ His left eye clouded over. ‘Yes, I sent a DNA sample up an hour and a half ago, reference: S H dash O slash D dash one zero two eight six…Yes, I know, but I want you to expedite it…I know there’s a backlog.’

His one clear eye swept across Brian’s angry face, then looked away quickly, voice lowered to a hiss. ‘I don’t care, just do it…Yes, I’ll hold.’

Two minutes of awkward silence later the pathologist slipped the fingerphone back into his pocket. ‘It’s a match. The DNA profile is the same as the one we have on file for this halfhead’s medical records. Obviously we don’t have a name, but when Services collect the remains for formal identification I can-’

‘It’s all right,’ said Will. ‘I know who she is.’

After all this time, she was finally dead. She could burn in Hell where she belonged.

‘Come on.’ Emily laid a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s go get pished.’

Eighteen floors beneath their feet a figure stirs in her sleep. The dream is lovely and warm, woven from other peoples’ nightmares. The last, terrifying moments of their lives. A slow, intimate waltz of blood, that slowly turns into something altogether more sensual. More special.

In the dream she looks exactly the same as she did on the day that they caught her: flowing golden hair that spills out in soft waves to her shoulder blades; soft, claret lips; long slender neck; and crystal clear, baby-blue eyes. Thirty-six years old and not looking a day over twenty-seven. The perfect predator.

The air is heavy with the sound of busy bees, and she is bathing naked in a bath of fresh, warm blood. There are pale bodies all around the bathtub, holding their slit wrists above the surface, dripping their last drops in her honour. She throws back her head and moans in sheer rapture at the sticky, warm delight.

And then a shadow falls across the room: The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit.

She shivers in her sleep. He’s here. He’s come to steal her face! She thrashes awake, knocking rolls of toilet paper flying. He’s here! He’s…

Her eyes dart back and forth. The room is quiet, peaceful, safe. The ceiling fan rotates above her, the pickers glide along their rails, the store hums away to itself. Everything is normal. He’s not here.

She sinks back into her nest and waits for her heart to stop pounding. She has never known fear like this before. Illogical. Irrational. Terrifying…

She examines the feeling, turning it back and forth in her mind, analysing her reaction and its cause.

The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit.

There’s only one thing to do: she has to confront her fear or it will always have power over her. She’s told hundreds of her patients the very same thing.

She slips from her nest to the storeroom floor.

The man who haunts her dreams isn’t a God, or a monster, He’s just a human being. But in order to confront her fear she must put a name to Him. And when she knows who He is, she can obtain closure.

Preferably with a very sharp knife.

Will and Emily stepped off the escalator and into the crowded lobby of Sherman House. Thursday morning, and the huge room was loud and sweaty, packed with sullen faces, all lit with the greasy green light that filtered in through the mould-covered plexiglass. A couple of halfheads pushed floor polishers across the atrium, redistributing the dirt. Someone nodded past, the sound of a cheap sub-dermal music player echoing out of his mouth. Bitter smells of stewed coffee, the dusty scent of mildew, the sweet tang of aerosol narcotics.

Will rubbed his palms dry on his trousers.

Nothing to worry about. He could do this. Deep breath. He could definitely do this. Nothing to worry about.

Why was it so damned hot in here?

He hauled at the collar of his eclectic rags-rescued from a seedy, second-hand shop on Nesbit Road-a patchwork of clashing colours and patterns, the trailing edges flapping as he moved. Emily wore hers like a native, but he looked like someone’s dad in fancy dress. It had been years since he’d gone undercover and it showed.

‘Relax,’ she said, scanning the crowd. ‘Everyone’s going to think someone shoved a dead cat up your arse.’

‘Feel like a bloody idiot.’

‘Look like one too.’ Emily frowned at him. ‘You might as well be carrying a six-foot placard saying “Undercover agent, please shoot me!” Relax for God’s sake.’

Will slouched, letting his arms dangle as they sauntered carefully across the crowded atrium.

‘Better. But still crap.’ She pulled the tabs on the two beers they’d bought at a little off-licence vending machine at the Martian Pavilion, and handed one over. ‘Try to look more vague. If anyone says anything just mumble incoherently, I’ll tell them you’re on Tezzers.’

‘Thanks a heap.’ He took a gulp from the tube, grimacing as the fizzy liquid burnt on the way down. Too much to drink last night: toasting the dear departed bitch’s memory with Emily and Brian in a variety of pubs, ending up in a pretentious little freezy joint on Sauchiehall Street. Where the drinks were every bit as ridiculously overblown as the music.