5,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
SHORTLISTED FOR THE CWA ILP JOHN CREASEY (NEW BLOOD) DAGGER 'A truly absorbing novel... legitimately frightening... unusually compelling' Kevin Brockmeier, author of The Brief History of the Dead 'Taut and timely' Alex Scarrow, author of the DCI Boyd thrillers 'A protagonist you want to root for... a fast-paced mystery Guy Morpuss, author of Five Minds ________________ DI Lucy Stone's life was changed forever when terrorists deployed a lethal nerve gas at Waterloo Station, killing 10% of London's population. Lucy should have died - but she didn't. When London's most important scientist is brutally murdered, Lucy discovers he may have been working on an antidote to the chemical weapon. But time is running out. Will Lucy find the antidote - and catch the killer - before it's too late? ________________ '[A] whirlwind of a read... Terrifyingly imagined... Read if you dare' Amy Lilwall, author of The Biggerers 'Gripping, evocative and will keep you guessing' Press Association 'Genuinely exciting, page-turning and frighteningly credible' Business Post
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
3
LONDON IN BLACK
JACK LUTZ
5
For my wife, my daughter and my mother
6
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
London, 2029
I just threw a fucking chair through Wilkes’s window.
Lucy looked down at her shaking hands. The red tint was fading. Breathe. Looked back up, around the squad room. Six other cops, all men: cheap suits, stubble. All staring. She saw six, knew there were more, hidden in the dark edges of her tunnel vision.
Her thoughts came in bursts.
I just threw? A fucking chair? Through Wilkes’s window?
She had.
She could see the chair. There it was, crumpled in the corridor, covered in bits of frosted glass. Black letters stood out against the flooring, and for a split second she thought of trying to fix it, trying to glue the thing back together like a giant puzzle. First, the big letters: LONDON METROPOLITAN POLICE—HOMICIDE COMMAND—MIT19. Then the small type: Commanding Officer, DCI Marie Wilkes.
Wilkes.
Wilkes’s brand-new window.
Fuck me.
She tried to think, to process what she’d done. Why? Why would I…
A rustle behind her. She spun around, saw DS Andy Sykes.
Oh.
Sykes.
She couldn’t remember what he’d done, which button he’d pressed. Touched my stomach? No. Trapped me? Can’t have. It was gone, vanished into the red. But he’d done something to set off an attack. Must have done. Sykes knew her triggers. Pretended 8not to, but most certainly fucking did. And now there he stood, shoulders shrugging, acting shocked. Playing the victim.
Bastard.
A young DC reached out a hand—it’s okay, Lucy—but Lucy was too quick. She pushed it away, took off. Out of the bullpen, away from the stares, into the corridor, slamming the metal door behind her.
DI Lucy Stone, the Met’s youngest homicide detective, was on fire.
Her hands shook as she stomped down the hallway. She jammed them into the pockets of her baggy black hoodie and focused on her breathing.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Fuck me.
Lucy reached the end of the corridor, rounded the corner. Ahead, she could see the gleaming New Scotland Yard lobby. It was late, had been dark for hours, but the lobby still bustled. Two uniforms sauntered down the hall towards her. She split them, sending coffees flying.
Focus. Breathe.
Just an attack. It’s now. It’s now, not then, stay now…
Images from two years ago burst into her mind, rapid-fire. Heaps of bodies, skin blistered, sloughing off. Green hazmat suits. A shrieking child, running naked. Drones.
The Scourge.
And then, she saw—It.
The Thing That Happened.
She held back a scream and willed herself forward, towards the exit.
Inhale, exhale.
Lucy wiped away a tear as she shot into the night.
9Outside, the chilly November air felt soothing on her face.
The panic faded as she passed the New Scotland Yard sign and turned down the Embankment. Big Ben loomed ahead, a giant hypodermic pricking the night sky. She pulled a hand from her hoodie and held it out as she walked. Better. It trembled, but she could at least read the tattooed script curving round the inside of her right wrist: JACK. She rubbed it and thought of her older brother.
Oh Jack, help me. I fucked up.
Would Wilkes take it personally? Hard not to. Twenty-five years on the job, no kids, whole life given to the job. Finally made up to DCI, finally her name on the window. Her window. And then, in an instant: smash.
Lucy’s stomach twisted.
I didn’t mean it, Ma’am. Truly.
Just, Sykes did something, set me off, an attack. Fucking Sykes…
The Tube roundel came into view and, next to it, the yellow lights of the Carpenters’ Arms: MIT19’s local. Lucy slowed, took a breath. Checked her mobile. Eleven. An hour. Fine. Plenty of time for a quick one. She threaded through the punters smoking on the pavement and ducked inside.
The Carpenters was a shit pub. Grim, threadbare carpets. Whiffy. A coach party of tourists in matching red anoraks clogged the entrance. She pushed through them easily, arms strong from years of boxing. Past the blinking fruities, straight for the empty rear of the bar. She sat down on a stool.
Harry the bartender came over.
“The usual, Lucy?”
She said nothing, just gave a final exhale.
“Right.” He poured a Coke from the gun, fiddled with the coffee machine, sunk two shots of espresso into the glass. Pushed it across to Lucy. “The usual.”
She took it without looking up.10
Good bartender, Harry. Deserves a better pub.
Across the room, the tourists laughed at something. Lucy glanced over, saw they had discovered the poppy box. A cardboard box filled with black paper poppies stood next to the till, and the tourists were taking turns plunking in a pound coin and pinning a poppy to their Gore-Tex. She caught snippets of the coach guide’s commentary: “…second anniversary…worst terror attacks in…drones, all releasing London Black. Yes, yes, precisely, a nerve agent, no antidote…”
One of the tourists fished a black rubber wristband from the box.
She squinted. London Strong was printed in white on one side of the band. On the other was a number. It was too far away for her to read the digits, but she knew it all the same: 32,956. Every Londoner knew that number.
Christ. A fucking death-count band. What sick fuck—
Her mobile phone began to vibrate. She pulled it from the pocket of her faded black jeans, glanced at the screen: Incoming call, DCI Marie Wilkes. Lucy mashed the red button and thumped the phone down on the bar. Not in the mood for a lecture, Ma’am. She took a sip from her glass. After a moment, texts began to bubble up.
Suspended.
A pause.
Unofficially.
A longer pause.
Lucy…please. For me. Try the Counsellor. Just once.
More ellipses appeared, but Lucy ignored them. She shoved the phone back into her jeans pocket and put her head down on her forearms. Took a deep breath. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Suspended. She felt like vomiting. Wilkes can’t. I need to work. She knows I need to work. Else, what am I? If I can’t work, if I’m not a cop, how can I ever pay the Debt? How can I—11
A squeak, as someone sat down on the stool next to her.
“Long day?”
Man’s voice. Unfamiliar. She didn’t bother to look up.
“Lot of things flying around,” she said into her bicep.
Do I look like I’m up for it? Really?
He paused, then tried again.
“Saw you just now as you came in. Haven’t we met before?”
Christ. Of all the lines to pick. Well, Romeo, let’s see. She raised her head, sighed, then stared up at his face. Squinted. Felt the gears turn, her little Party Trick working its magic.
And…nope.
“No,” she said. “No, we’ve never met.”
Out the corner of her eye, she noticed Harry grin. Wait. Harry knows I’m a Super Recognizer? She filed this away. Meant to be private, a goddamn medical condition, but some other MIT19 regular must’ve let it slip. Probably Sykes. Wanker.
“Oh,” said the man. “Right. Course. Sorry.”
She watched him scan her face. Inspecting the goods, yeah? Lucy had a broad, square jaw tapering to a pointy chin. A cute chin, men told her. Which, fuck that, it’s a strong chin. Chin that can take an uppercut. Espresso hair, chopped short. Big almond eyes, bigger purple bags beneath. Thin nose, hard mouth. Twenty-nine years old. Like what you see, buddy? Too bad. Not on offer. Item out of stock.
His eyes lit up.
“Oh, sorry…but it’s just, I think I know…”
She saw where he was headed. For fuck’s sake. Not the Actor now.
“I mean,” he continued, “this is awkward, I know, but you aren’t by any chance—”
“No. Not her.”
People had made the comparison at least once a week for years. It annoyed her more and more each time. Yes, flattering, yes, the Actor is pretty, really she is, but how can they not see how12different we look? Apples and oranges, oranges and apples. And I’m the wormy fucking apple.
She stood, finished her drink, pushed the empty glass back towards Harry.
“Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“Wait, wait. I didn’t mean…” He rose from his stool, hands raised, but Lucy was already moving. She brushed past. Tried to avoid contact, slip him like a punch, but his arms were too long.
She felt his fingers graze her stomach.
Oh fuck.
Not again.
Images began to flash.
She put her head down and bolted for the door, crashing through the tourists with their poppies and their smiles and their ghastly fucking wristbands. It was raining now. Her black trainers squeaked as she fled down the steps into the Tube station.
She was calm again by the time the train pulled into Barbican Station.
It was fully kitted out for London Strong Week now, Lucy noticed. Banners, signs, posters of sombre-looking Londoners holding hands. A programme of events: the Remembrance Wreath Procession, a London-wide moment of silence. Black poppies everywhere. As she rode the escalator upwards, she passed a poster with a bright red tag line across the top: CAN YOU SEE ME? But she couldn’t—the man’s head was completely defaced. Someone had stuck dozens of round stickers over the top, each with an image of a large double-barred cross. At the bottom she could still make out the poster’s footer: THE SURVIVORS’ RIGHTS ASSOCIATION SUPPORTS LONDON STRONG WEEK.13
Heathens. She tried to peel off a sticker as the escalator carried her past.
At the top, she tapped through the ticket barrier, then stopped at the Cox gate for the London Black scan. An amber light flashed. The chem sniffers whirred as they passed over her body.
God bless Flinders Cox.
She tried to remember the last copycat attack. Up in Harringay, she thought, week ago now, but maybe she’d missed one? Never know. No one announces them, no one claims them. Not the same terrorists as the Scourge, the original attacks two years back. Couldn’t be, those men were locked up, rotting away in Belmarsh. But the copycats? Whoever they are, whatever they want, the attacks just keep fucking coming. The station clock read 23:40, and she tapped her foot as the scan finished. A click, then green light. The Cox gate doors whooshed open. She walked through and headed out of the station, into the night.
It was raining harder now. Thick drops soaked her top. Lucy flipped up the hood. It muffled the street noise, tunnelled her vision. Like one of her attacks in a way, but there was no red, thank God, and she could still think, sort out the new problem. So. Suspension. Fuck. But…unofficial. Which means…what, exactly?
As she moved north on Goswell Road, the neighbourhood grew grittier. Betting shops, chicken shops. Metal shutters covered in graffiti. Teenagers’ tags, mostly, but some bits still left from the Scourge, if you knew where to look. A few red X’s. Evac arrows. And scrawled in silver on the side of a corner shop: We aLL DeaD NoW, WoE, WoE.
Lucy tugged on her hoodie drawstrings.
Reckon it’s just a warning. Unwritten warning, those are a thing. Still feel pretty shit about it. Sorry, Ma’am. But…might not be so bad, yeah? If I can still work, still pay the Debt, that’s what counts.14
She passed a cash point alcove. A rough sleeper huddled inside, under a red tarp. His cardboard sign was soggy and the pen had run, but she could still read the words:
i survived † london black † god bless
She stopped, reached into her jeans pocket, dropped a pound coin into his battered Costa cup. The man stirred. A wheeze: “Bless.” He pulled back the tarp. Lucy turned away, but not quickly enough. A thin gauze mask covered the man’s face, but through a slit, she could still see his eyes.
Black.
His eyes were entirely black.
She kept walking. Sighed. Felt bad about looking away, knew it was rude and hurtful and cruel, but seeing Survivors’ faces always made the guilt worse somehow. Made the Debt seem bigger. As if it wasn’t big enough already.
Five minutes later, Lucy turned off Goswell Road and approached her building, an ugly block of flats. Barely affordable when she was a student at City; she’d only stopped worrying about making rent once Simon moved in, just before he proposed. She unlocked the lobby door—hard to call it a lobby, really, just a crap little stairwell landing with a few post cubbies—and climbed three flights to her hallway. Last door on the left: dented metal, its cherry red paint cracked and flaking.
Lucy stomped three times on the grubby doormat and entered.
The flat was tiny. Spartan. One small bedroom, nearly empty. She’d painted the walls black. Ceiling, too. A battered wooden desk shoved against the far wall was the only piece of proper furniture. One mirrored cupboard. Three floor lamps were spaced around the room, and Lucy made a quick circuit, switching them all on. A free-standing pull-up bar lurked in the corner.15
There was no bed.
She kicked off her trainers, then removed the hoodie, revealing a black vest. A clothes hanger dangled from one of the lamps. She took it down, pulled the hoodie through and hung it back up, smoothing the damp material with her hands. With her finger, she traced the ‘Jack’ embroidered above the left breast. Thought about Jack. About Simon. How strange it was they never met.
Her phone alarm began to chirp.
Midnight. Perf.
Lucy padded through to the bathroom. It had no door. She’d taken it off the hinges, dragged it to a skip behind the building, left it to rot. It was her first task two years ago, once everything was over. Done it even before she’d removed the bed, before she’d painted the walls. Now she sat down on the toilet seat and pulled the vest over her head.
Every inch of her torso was covered with bruises.
Big, angry, purple bruises. Mean-looking, like she’d taken a full fight’s worth of body blows straight on, one after another after another. In the middle of each one: a tiny needle mark. To the left of her belly button, a small ceramic disc with a Cox Labs logo was attached to her skin. She waved her phone in front of the disc, and a number appeared on the mobile screen: 7.4.
Right. Boost time.
A white cardboard box sat on the sink, beneath a cobweb-cracked mirror. Lucy reached inside. Pulled out a syringe. It was enormous, needle fit for a horse. The label running down the spine read: COX LABS—ELEMIDOX ©—30mL. She rotated it in her fingers.
God bless Flinders Cox, she thought again.
And then, mechanically: I am thankful for this Boost.
She dug back into the box. This time she pulled out a small white sachet. Tore it open with her teeth, extracted an alcohol 16swab and rubbed it on her stomach. The purple skin glistened. She removed the black circular cap from the syringe and tucked it into her jeans pocket. Primed the gigantic needle. Took a breath.
Now, think.
Think about what you did.
Lucy jabbed the needle directly into one of her bruises.
The liquid was viscous; the plunger moved slowly. Her hand trembled, then shook. Christ. The shaking spread to her arm. She stared at her cracked reflection. The plunger was still only halfway down. Oh. Oh, Jesus, it fucking hurts. As the last of the liquid disappeared into her body, she spoke out loud to the splintered Lucys in the mirror, each word coming out as a gasp:
“You. Deserve. This.”
You deserve the pain.
She closed her eyes and sat for a minute, arm still twitching. Forced herself to picture what had happened back then, two years ago. What she’d done. Everything, all of it, start to finish, right up to The Thing. A tear plunked to the tile floor. Then she stood up, took a deep breath, tossed the empty syringe into a yellow sharps bin and swiped her mobile in front of the sensor disc once more.
8.7.
Lucy frowned. She tried again. 8.7.
Not 9? Strange.
She shrugged—must be a mistake—then walked to the desk. Right, back to it. Work time. Her laptop sat square in the middle of the desk top. Lucy flipped it open and sat down. Wilkes won’t have thought of blocking remote access. Plus, unofficial suspension, right? Right. It’ll work. Has to. She clicked on the remote login icon, typed in her Met ID and password. Hit return. Fingers crossed.
A pop-up: Access denied.
God fucking bitch shit fuck wanker.17
“Rats,” she said out loud.
She tried a second time. Same result.
Lucy pushed her chair back from the desk, ran unvarnished nails through her hair. Now what the fuck do I do? Now how do I pay the Debt?
The Debt was awful. Horrible. She felt it always. Not a financial debt, not money, but a jet-black, deep-down guilt that crushed her, overwhelmed her, threatened to obliterate her. The Debt felt like a weight she dragged wherever she went. Had done for two years now, ever since the Thing happened and the Debt was born. The worst part about the Debt was that she didn’t know how much she owed, when the guilt would lift. If it would lift. Working helped, that much she knew. Each murder she solved felt like a tiny payment. But no work meant she couldn’t pay. And then the guilt would mount, rise to the skies, a giant black mountain that would tumble down and flatten her, once and for all.
Fuck me.
And then there was the time.
She checked her phone. It was barely half midnight.
So what do I do for the next four hours?
Each night, Lucy’s tiny flat hosted a prize fight, a knock-down-drag-out ten-rounder. Lucy Stone in one corner, ladies and gents, squaring off against her perpetual opponent: sleep. She hated sleep. Feared it. Sleep brought the dreams, the Screamers, the ones that made her wake up shaking, cheeks wet with tears. Work helped her fight the sleep off. She could last until four most nights, poring over case files, planning next steps. Trips to the kitchen, where she mixed her drink of choice: a canned espresso double shot cracked open and dumped into a bottle of Coke. A Lucy Stone, Harry called it sometimes when he mixed it at the Carpenters. One Lucy Stone, coming up. She might drink three, four a night. With no bed to tempt her—she’d dragged 18that out to the skip, too, the mattress and bits of frame left next to the bathroom door—she worked until she passed out at her desk.
But now there was no work.
And books, films, TV—those were all things for old Lucy. Not for her, not with the Debt.
So…
She looked over to the pull-up bar.
Only one left thing to do.
Lucy put her phone down and walked to the bar. Looked up.
Before the Scourge, she had struggled to do a single pull-up on Simon’s bar. Now she could do a hundred. Two hundred, maybe. She didn’t keep track. Couldn’t. Too painful. Just did them, over and over and over, until the tears streamed down and her mind burned with the memory of The Thing That Happened and she finally slid down and crumpled to the floor, gasping and shaking but somehow, the tiniest bit lighter. The pull-ups paid the Debt, too.
She took a breath, then leapt up and grabbed the bar.
On the desk, her mobile buzzed.
Wilkes? Could be. Fine, okay, Ma’am. You can have your lecture.
Lucy dropped down, walked over to the desk. Looked at the screen: Incoming Call, Annoying Reporter 2. Not Wilkes then. She frowned. Hit the green button.
“DI Stone.”
“On suspension, Lucy?” The reporter’s accent was cut-glass. She always wondered why they assigned toffs to the crime beat. Chasing thrills, down with us plebs? She kept a few as contacts in her phone, in case she needed a favour with the press. Didn’t bother learning the names. They changed out quickly anyway.
“It’s not a suspension—”
“Not what I hear.” An annoying singsong.
“Then you hear wrong.”19
She could make out noises in the background. Chatter. A quick blast of siren.
Fuck is all this about, then?
“Right,” he said. “Sure. If you say. Bit surprised not to see you here, is all. Asked around. Heard the goss. Just thought you’d appreciate a heads-up. But if you already know, then hey-ho…”
You’re looking to bank a favour. But for what?
What could you possibly know?
“Wait,” she said. “Wait. Where are you?”
“So you haven’t heard, then?”
She sighed, sick of his game. “Heard what?” Spill it, Nigel or Basil or whatever the fuck your name is.
“Well…” He paused, suddenly coy. “Not sure if I should be saying, really…”
“Want me to say it? Fine. I owe you. Now talk.”
Silence.
And then:
“Flinders Cox was murdered tonight.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lucy pressed the door buzzer a third time.
It was pouring. Small, hard drops struck the cobblestones, bounced, returned to the ground. Lucy’s hair was plastered to her head. She hadn’t bothered with her hood on the walk from the Overground station. Hardly even noticed the rain. Hardly noticed anything, really, not the cold, not the dark, not the drunken lads catcalling as she marched past. She only had one thought: I need this fucking case.
Need it more than anything. And I can’t let you stand in my way, Ma’am.
As she reached for a fourth press of the buzzer, the lock clicked. The door inched open. A woman’s head appeared above the chain. Late forties, tall, well-groomed. Wavy chestnut hair, up for the night. A handsome woman.
“Lucy?” DCI Marie Wilkes stared down at her rain-soaked protégé.
Lucy said nothing, stared right back. Her eyes blazed. How could you? Yes, chair, smash, right, fine. Bad Lucy. But…Flinders Cox? Flinders fucking Cox? Of all the people in the world, Ma’am, Flinders Cox is murdered and you keep me off the case?
Wilkes tried again. “Lucy, what on earth are you—”
“Flinders Cox, Ma’am.”
Silence, save for the steady patter of rain.
How could you do it?
A rustle as Wilkes unfastened the chain and pushed the door wide.
“Well, suppose you’d better come in, then. Can’t just stand out there, can we?”21
Lucy wiped her feet on the mat and entered.
Inside, the flat was elegant. A converted warehouse: clean lines, high ceilings. Wilkes’s silk dressing gown swished on the hardwood floor as she led Lucy halfway down the hallway, then stopped next to a side table. Pink carnations stood in a shabby chic vase.
She looked uncertain.
What’s the matter, Ma’am? Scared I’ll break something? Tear up your posh new digs?
“Can I get you something, Lucy? Tea, coffee?”
Lucy shook her head. Water dripped from her hoodie. It began to pool on the wood. Expensive-looking wood—beech, maybe, Lucy wasn’t sure, had only half-listened all those times Wilkes tried to talk interior design. Please give me what I want and then I’ll stop dripping all over your vintage distressed whatever fucking flooring.
Wilkes sighed. “I was going to tell you in the morning,” she said. “Hoped you’d be sleeping.”
Oh, Ma’am. Please. You know better.
“The call came in just after you made your little exit,” Wilkes said. “You know how it is. Madhouse. Everyone scrambling.” She fingered her gold watch. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re suspended. By rights, you should be here grovelling for your job. Destruction of Met property? You could be sacked. Done. So if you think I’ll change my mind just because some new case comes through…”
Lucy glared. Some new case? What, just “some” case, then?
“Flinders Cox,” she said. A long pause. Then, icily: “Ma’am.”
Wilkes threw up her hands.
“Lucy, it’s one in the bloody morning. You can’t just swing by, buzz me up out of my blessed slumbers and then just say ‘Flinders Cox’ over and over like a raving lunatic.”
Fine. Let’s get into it. Lucy squared her shoulders, set her jaw. 22Drew herself up to her full five foot four. I’m up for a fight. “I need to work this case,” she said. “Truly. Need to.”
“Well, perhaps you should’ve thought of that before you started redecorating.”
“But Sykes—”
Wilkes snorted. “Yes. Sykes is an ass. Believe me, I know. I had ten years of him before you arrived. And if I thought for a second that he really understood what he said to you…”
A fleeting thought: So it was something he said then?
“…what it meant, he’d be suspended, too. Officially. But Sykes isn’t the point, is he?”
“Well, he is, Ma’am, sort of…”
“He isn’t. You know that. It’s more than that. And I’m sorry, but the answer’s no.”
You’re sorry? Really? That’s it? Lucy frowned. Reached into her hoodie, into the special padded pocket she’d had custom sewn inside the left arm, and pulled out a syringe: her emergency Boost. Placed it next to the vase, label facing up: Cox Labs. Looked at Wilkes.
“Yes,” Wilkes said, “I know.”
Not enough?
She stuck her hand under her vest and grabbed the monitoring disc. How about this, then? Pulled it slowly away from her skin, then took it out, put it down next to the syringe. Tiny drops of blood glistened on the ends of three sensor needles. She rotated it until the Cox Labs logo faced Wilkes. Crossed her arms.
A sigh. “I know, Lucy. I was there, remember? I know. You’re a Vulnerable. And you’re one of the Sixty-Two. Without Cox’s Boosts, you’d have been dead two years ago—or a Survivor, anyway. Believe me, I do know what this means to you.”
No. No, you don’t. Because you don’t know what I’ve done. No one does.
No one still alive.23
“Please, Ma’am. As a favour. I’m asking.”
“Lucy—”
“Ma’am, I—”
Wilkes’s voice grew louder. “No, Lucy, listen to me—”
“I need it, truly, I do, and you can’t just—”
“DI Stone, be quiet.”
Silence. The two women locked eyes.
“Listen to me,” Wilkes said. Her voice was stern. “You know I think highly of you. Promoted you three times, haven’t I? DI at twenty-nine, that’s unheard of. You have a gift. A unique talent.”
Leave the Party Trick out of it.
“And you’re more than that. Clever. Good intuition. Hardworking—and I don’t just mean now, these past two years, your insane hours. You always were. Not like Sykes and his lot, ready to piss off down the pub the moment I look away.” A sneer at the thought. “I saw it back then. Helped you. You know that.”
Lucy looked away. Her eyes rested on the carnations. Memories flashed up, snippets from a shopping trip: Marie Wilkes leading an eager young Constable Stone into clothing stores. Upmarket stuff, the sort Lucy had always given a wide berth. Jigsaw, Hobbs, Max Mara. Late-night chats about the importance of presentation, of professionalism. How hard it could be.
“But this case…” Wilkes sighed. Her voice softened. “It’s too important. I’m sorry, but it is. Everyone’s watching. Not just the top brass. The whole world. And I can’t take the risk.”
The risk? Fuck risk. If I solve this…
“Ma’am—”
“You say you need this, Lucy? No. No.” A pause. “You know what you need.”
Lucy said nothing. Just stared.
Don’t say it, Ma’am.
Don’t say therapy.24
That’s for people who deserve to get better. Not me, not yet. I owe a Debt.
“You should go home now,” said Wilkes. “Get some sleep.”
And then she fingered her watch again.
Lucy frowned.
Wait.
I’ve seen that before.
A memory: Simon, fiddling with his mobile phone. Years back, before he’d proposed. He’d moved in, but still had his old place, still crashed there on nights he worked late. They were on the bed at Lucy’s, eating dinner, sprawled across the big fluffy duvet. Takeaway curry, his favourite. But he was ignoring his veg korma, playing with the phone, rotating it in his hands. Frowning, like Wilkes was doing now. She’d had a hunch. Asked. And he’d broken down. Confessed straight away. His ex, Melanie, they were drunk, it was just once. Never again, Luce. Promise. Never let you down again. Die first. I swear.
And now here was Wilkes, toying with her watch in just the same way.
Guilty.
She feels guilty.
Lucy started to connect the dots.
Guilty because…? Watch is new. New watch, new flat. Promotion money. So, guilt about the promotion. Her thoughts sped up as she saw the light. Guilt about the promotion, because of me. Because of how much my cases helped her, because she got credit as my superior.
And—
She ran her fingers through her wet hair and thought of the leaflets. All those fucking leaflets, the ones Wilkes left on her crap desk when she wasn’t looking. Titles like PTSD: Signs and Symptoms and You’re Not Alone and Understanding Reactions to Trauma. The ones Lucy crumpled up, binned, because those were for other people, not for her, not yet.25
And she thinks she should do even more than drop leaflets. Scared she’s taking advantage.
She feels guilty.
Oh, Ma’am.
She stared at her mentor. The track lighting shone harshly on Wilkes’s worry lines. Lucy thought about it, weighed it all up, then decided.
I’m sorry. I am. It’s unfair.
But I need this.
So…
“That’s a lovely watch, Ma’am,” she said slowly. “What is it? Gucci?”
“Mmm.” Wilkes didn’t look up. Tried to push the watch up beneath the sleeve of her dressing gown.
“New?”
A nod.
“Nice. Truly. Well, reason to celebrate, yeah? Congratulations again, by the way. Well-earned.” Her voice was hard beneath the compliment. “And this flat…” She made a show of looking around. Up at the high ceilings, down at the flooring, where the hoodie puddle was now the size of a handprint. “It’s lovely. Like from one of your magazines.”
Wilkes said nothing. Shifted uncomfortably.
“And you always wanted to be here in Wapping, right? Down by the river? Know you mentioned it. Bet you’ve got a smashing river view. So sort of a dream come true for you, yeah?” Lucy ran her finger down the shabby chic vase. “Everything you always wanted…”
So you owe me this, Ma’am.
Wilkes gave a deep sigh. Looked at her with disappointed eyes.
Lucy stared right back.
You owe me Flinders Cox.
A pause, then: “Fine, Lucy.”26
Lucy said nothing, just nodded.
I’m sorry. Guilt trip, not fair, know it. But needs must.
“DI King is taking the lead on Cox.”
“King?”
“New bloke. Down from Birmingham. You skipped his welcome drinks, of course. Seems a good chap.” Hesitated, then said it: “Not bad on the eyes, either.”
“Right.” Long as he’s not Sykes, Part Two.
“I’ll call him. Let him know. You can work the case, but you need to work with him.”
I’m a shadow now? Fine. Whatevs. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Please don’t make me regret this, DI Stone.”
“No, Ma’am. And thank you.”
A slight nod.
Lucy nodded back, then turned and walked down the hallway. Opened the door.
“Lucy?”
She stopped. Turned around. Looked at Wilkes. Watched as the older woman’s eyes travelled over her baggy hoodie and faded jeans, down to the grimy, waterlogged trainers.
“Just wondered. Do you still have it?” Her voice was wistful. “The suit? The Max Mara?”
Outside the door, rain beat down on the cobbles.
“No,” said Lucy softly. “I burned it, Ma’am.”
CHAPTER THREE
Posh place for a murder.
Lucy looked up at Flinders Cox’s imposing Mayfair townhouse. The red carpet was still out, she noticed, but the top-hatted doormen—Had to be top-hatted doormen, right? Big do, place like this? Must have been—were gone, replaced by a uniform wearing a high-vis waterproof. He yawned as she trotted up the steps.
“It’s only half two,” she told him.
She walked through the front door and into the entrance hall. It was dazzling. Mirrors, chandeliers, parquet flooring. A staircase rose up at the back. Lucy looked around, impressed. Christ. Wilkes needs to check this place out. She’d love it. The hall was packed with police: half of MIT19, plus forensics, photographers, press officers. To her right, open double doors gave a view of a ballroom dotted with round tables. She stuck her head in, saw the aftermath of a gala drinks reception. Leftover canapés. Half-empty champagne flutes. Remains of a full bar at one end, a raised lectern at the other. Three forensics flitted about taking samples. No body, no tape. Not the murder scene.
She turned back to the entrance hall, grabbed a uniform as he shuffled past.
“Where’s the scene?”
He pointed upstairs. She nodded and wove through the crush of cops. At the foot of the staircase, she spotted Sykes. He was talking to a tall man in an olive rain jacket. Their backs were to Lucy, but there was no mistaking Sykes’s grey fedora. Wore it smashed down over his thinning hair to any scene where there might be a female news reporter. Like he’s Humphrey Bogart. What a knob. She enjoyed watching the reporters ignore him.28
He was miming throwing something as she walked up behind them.
“…crazy fucking bint,” he finished.
“I can hear you, Sykes.”
He flinched. Turned. “Stone.” A cough. “Well. Heard Wilkes let you off easy. Figures.”
The tall man took a slight step away from Sykes. He was easily six foot three. Big. Not fat, burly. The navy suit jacket beneath the rain jacket struggled to contain his chest, and his tie was loosened below his bull neck. A heavyweight. Lucy glanced at his face. Strong chin, stubble. Broad, flat nose. Striking green eyes.
Oh. You. I recognize you.
“Ed King,” said the burly man. He smiled at her, extended a paw. “Don’t think we’ve met.”
“Think you’re wrong about that,” said Sykes. He gave Lucy a quick sneer.
Sykes, don’t.
“Sorry?” King looked confused.
“Nothing,” she said. Shook his hand. “Stone. Lucy. Scene’s upstairs, yeah?” She stepped around Sykes and began to climb the stairs. “I’ll just go up…”
“Oh, don’t be modest, Stone,” said Sykes. To King: “Didn’t you catch it just now? When she looked at you? She recognized you. It’s her little gift. Stone’s…‘special’.”
A freak, his tone suggested.
Lucy stopped. Shot Sykes a dirty look. He knew she hated talking about the Party Trick, especially with someone she didn’t know. It was there, yes. A gift. Fine. But so incredibly awkward. Made everyone paranoid. Plus, I’m more than just the Party Trick. I’m a damn good cop, Sykes. And you’re a bone-idle crap bastard.
King looked from Lucy to Sykes and back. “I don’t understand…”29
Sykes kept talking. “Stone here is what’s called a ‘Super Recognizer’. Met started recruiting them a few years back, after some Oxford toff realized there was such a thing.”
“Okay…” King shrugged.
“Something to do with their brains. Abnormal.”
“The fusiform face area,” Lucy said. “Forget it. More important things right now.” Much more important. Come on, Ed. Let’s get to it.
But Sykes was enjoying her embarrassment. “It’s like this,” he continued. “Normal bloke remembers maybe five per cent of the faces he’s seen. Good cop, with training? A few more. But one of her lot?” He wrinkled his nose at Lucy. “Eighty. And Stone, she’s like their queen. Remembers…what’s the number again, Stone?”
“You know.”
“Ninety-three per cent. Ninety-three per cent of the faces she’s seen. Ever.”
King stared at her. It was a good stare, though, she decided. Not jealous or intimidated. Just interested.
He really does look a little like Jack.
“So we’ve met before? Really?”
She nodded.
“Where?”
A sigh. Well, if you really must know…
“Bristol,” she said. “Three years ago. Training event. Anti-discrimination, I think.” She watched as he frowned, tried to think back. “One of the breakout sessions. You were two ahead of me in the coffee queue. I remember you from there.”
“Good lord.” He gave a little laugh, showing straight white teeth. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“You saw me for ten seconds, three years ago, and you still remember? That’s amazing.”30
“It’s freaky, is what it is,” said Sykes. He looked annoyed that King wasn’t more put off.
“And you really just keep them in your mind? You don’t forget them over time?”
“Honestly? Some I wish I could.” Stared hard at Sykes. “Now, please can I get cracking?” She tugged on her hoodie drawstrings. Enough of this bullshit. I have a murder to solve. “Up here, yeah?”
“I’ll show you,” said King. “Andy, go check on the daughter.” He began to climb the steps after her, moving nimbly despite his size. “He’s in a little room off the master bedroom. Like a study. And Lucy…brace yourself.”
Flinders Cox lay on his back on the floor of his study.
Blood from the jagged hole in his neck pooled around his head, matting the silver hair. His long beard was crimson-streaked. He looked surprised: mouth open, arms spread.
A wooden crucifix was jammed into his right eye socket.
“Jesus,” said Lucy.
King stood beside her. “Actually,” he said, “that wasn’t the murder weapon.”
She looked up. “No?”
He shook his head. “Forensics made a first pass. Killer used a knife. Hunting. Combat maybe. Not quite certain yet. But a proper blade. This was done just after.”
She bent down, stared into the open left eye. Sighed.
Always wanted to say thank you, Mr Cox.
“The crucifix came from there,” King continued. He pointed to a nail head protruding from the far wall. “Only bit of decoration in the room.”
Lucy stood. Glanced around. The tiny study was windowless 31and nearly bare. Whitewashed walls. A small writing desk, thick red books and a picture frame on top. Chequerboard tile floor. No rug. An uncomfortable-looking camp bed was pushed up against a wall.
“Odd, right?” King asked. “Middle of all this luxury?” His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Makes me a bit sick, if I’m honest, massive house like this. His missus has a room larger than this for her shoes. And then he spends all his time in here.” A shake of his head. “Like a little monastic cell.”
She nodded. Cox was religious, she knew. Catholic. Everyone knew that. Gave three mil to repair Westminster Cathedral two years ago, after it was damaged in the body removal riots. Lucy wasn’t religious herself, not beyond ticking C of E on forms and loving Christmas carols, but she admired the gesture. All that good he did… Chemistry, philanthropy. Survivors’ rights. All for this. Fucking awful. A deep breath. I need to solve this. Not just for me, Mr Cox. Not just for the Debt. For you.
“Right,” she said. “So where are we, then?”
“Full rundown?” King pulled a small blue notebook from his rain jacket, flipped it open. “You saw downstairs? Little get-together. Come round and have a few, Mayfair style. Champers, canapés. Cox was meant to give a little speech at the end.” A tech with a camera stuck his head in the doorway; Lucy waved him away. “Closing remarks, sounds like. Guests all fed and watered, Flinders comes down, says a few chipper words, sends them out smiling into the night.”
“That was the plan?”
“That was the plan. Bit of a snag, though.”
“So I see.” Lucy was slowly circling the room, checking angles, sizing up the scene. What do we have to work with here? Must be something. She pulled on her hoodie strings.
“Cox spent the evening upstairs, practising his speech. Wife and daughter left to entertain the masses. Nervous speaker, 32apparently.” He shrugged. “Hate pressers myself. Feel like a monkey, grinning for the camera.” He looked across the room at Lucy. “You?”
God, pressers. She’d loved them, actually. Felt strong, in control. Ready for all comers. But Wilkes hadn’t let her near one in over a year. Scared she might explode on camera. Plus, can’t have me on telly in a hoodie, can we, Ma’am?
“Don’t do many these days,” she told him.
“Lucky you. Anyway, he never came down. Daughter went up to check on him. Found this mess, poor woman.”
Poor woman? Or a suspect? “Have you spoken with her?”
He shook his head. “Looked in, but Doc says no. Not yet. Shock. Sykes will let us know.”
Fucking Sykes. “He’s family liaison, then, is he?”
King nodded. “You two seem close, by the way.”
She frowned. Said nothing.
“Well, just remember, I’m the new guy. Goodwill to all. Totally neutral. Switzerland.” A twinkle. “Bit of a wanker, though, isn’t he?”
For the first time she could remember, Lucy laughed. Looked over at King, at his strong chin, wide smile. Like this King chappie, she thought. And then: a surge of guilt, like a blow to the gut. She turned away. Shut her eyes, hoped King wouldn’t notice.
He didn’t. Kept talking. “But what you really want to know is, any leads? Answer, fuck all. Have the guest list. Wife, daughter. Two dozen guests, mostly Cox Labs employees. Geoffrey Hurst, the CEO. A few Survivors’ rights activists sprinkled in. Couple of reporters. Dozen catering staff, all Survivors.”
“All of them?”
“Yep. Survivor-owned business. That’s Cox’s thing, right? Doormen both Survivors as well.”
“Hmm.” Knew there’d be doormen. Fiver says top hats.33
“No blood on anyone, not to the naked eye at least. Forensics will confirm. No weapon. No one remembers seeing anything. And there was a back door, so someone could’ve just strolled in off the street for all we know.”
“Right.” She knelt, checked under the camp bed. Nothing.
“Full interviews tomorrow—in the morning. Three DCs lined up. Hicks, Evans. Forget the third.”
She walked up to the desk, stepping carefully over the edge of the blood pool. “Salford, I expect. Bit up himself, but he works hard.” Looked at the book titles, at the framed photo: a smiling man in his twenties. A Cox Labs paper pad, full of doodles. Three cheap biros, all tooth-marked. Strange. Think a billionaire could spring for a decent pen.
“Salford. That’s the one. Crap taste in ties, Wilkes said?”
Lucy shrugged. Whatever. Better than Sykes’s fedora. A small stack of pink record cards stood in the corner of the desk. “Ed?” She pointed at them. “What are these?”
“Speech notes. No prints besides his. We checked. Have a squiz if you like.”
She picked the cards up, turned them over in her hands. Cox’s handwriting was awful.
“’Two years ago,’” she read out loud, “‘death rained down upon the London streets. The Scourge. Days…horrors…forever carved into our memories.’”
“Like I said. Chipper.” A uniform came in, handed King a duty roster on a clipboard, left.
Lucy flipped to the next card. Kept reading, “‘Survival, genetic roulette. For nine in ten of us, exposure to London Black meant nothing. Touch of nausea. Itchy eyes.” Her husky voice rang off the bare walls. “But for that unlucky tenth, for the Vulnerable…without a Boost to protect them, exposure meant death. Horrible, agonizing death. Or, for a few, a new life. A changed life. Full of challenges, full of pain. A Survivor.’”34
A scribble: Mention the 62?
Her voice caught and she stopped reading.
That’s me. The Sixty-Two.
Flinders Cox was thinking about me.
She took a breath. Continued onto the next card, reading silently now.
‘But tonight, my friends, is a new beginning. A new era. One without fear.’
And then, at the bottom of the card, a note:
‘(show syringe of U)’
A jolt of electricity ran up Lucy’s spine.
“Ed?”
He looked up from the duty roster. “Hmm?”
“Did anyone check what the speech was meant to be about?”
“Course. Did it myself. Cox made it out to be a big secret, but everyone knew. All the Cox Labs employees did, at any rate. Next-gen Boost. Just started clinical trials, meant to be ready in a year. Calling it Elemidox Ultra.”
“Ultra? With a ‘U’?”
“How else?”
“So, just an updated Boost? Same basic thing, London Black prophylactic for Vulnerables? Twenty-four hours’ protection against copycat attacks, must jab before exposure?”
“Sounds like it. The two blokes I spoke with were pretty blasé. One of them mentioned something about helping with…” He checked his notebook. “Reduced enzymatic uptake.” A shrug. “Meant to be painless, too. But yeah, basically a slightly better Boost. Why?”
“Well…” She crossed the room to him. Held out a card, pointed. “What’s that letter? That one, there. Show syringe of…what?”
He studied it. “Looks like a lower-case ‘A’ to me. Why?”35
“Not a ‘U’, then?”
A slow head shake. “I mean…couldn’t swear to it. Handwriting’s crap. But it almost touches there at the top. I’d say ‘A’.”
Lucy ran her fingers through her hair. Thought of Cox. Of watching his speech, just after the all-clear from the final attack. Thought about what he’d promised. Sworn it, looking into the cameras, looking into the face of a city reeling from the greatest tragedy it had faced in centuries. Her left thumb crept to her tattoo. Please let it be. It has to be. Has to.
Antidote.
A is for Antidote.
“I don’t know, Lucy,” King said.
They stood on the first landing of the staircase. Lucy stared down at the hallway floor. She felt giddy. Dizzy, almost, like when she was a little girl and Jack would push her on the playground roundabout, round and round for what felt like hours, just because she loved it and he wanted to make her happy and if he didn’t who else fucking would?
She took a breath. Focused.
An antidote.
If there’s an antidote, if Cox really did it…and it was stolen, and I find it…
It felt like something from a dream. A good dream, not the Screamers.
If I recover an antidote for London Black, that’s it. Debt’s paid. Clean slate. Has to be.
Which means, I need this more than anything. Not just want.
Need.
King looked over at her. Frowned. “It’s just, no one’s mentioned an antidote, right?” He spread his huge hands wide. 36“No one. None of the Cox Labs guys. Not even Hurst, and he’s the bloody CEO.”
“Maybe they’re trying to keep it from the media.”
“But if Cox was about to announce it…?”
“Maybe it’s a secret. Maybe they don’t know.” She frowned, thought of the scene upstairs, the tiny study. So, why the crucifix? Who would do that? And to Flinders Cox, of all people? Man’s practically a fucking saint. But still, has to be about an antidote. Know it.
King shrugged. “It just seems unlikely, is all. Occam’s razor. Probably just a ‘U’.”
Lucy glanced at him. He looked tired.
Need you on board, Ed.
“Think about it,” she said. “Techs searched the study, yeah? And no one found a syringe? A vial, nothing like that?”
He shook his head. “Just normal stuff. Wallet, keys. Phone.”
“Certain?”
“Signed the log. Watched the bags leave for the station myself.”
“Right. So then what about the card? It said ‘show syringe’. Must have been something there for him to hold up, right? But if so, where’d it go?” A quick tug on her hoodie drawstrings. “No one would kill Cox to steal something that’s already in clinical trials. But a secret antidote…”
Another shrug. “Perhaps someone would’ve handed him a syringe of the Ultra stuff before he went on? Dunno. We can ask in the interviews. Full slate lined up.” He pulled up the sleeve of his jacket, checked his watch. A cheap watch, Lucy noticed. Scratched face, flaking metal. “Getting on three. Shall we call it? Regroup in the morning?” Without waiting for an answer, he began trotting down the stairs. “We’ll get forensics back,” he said over his shoulder. “Start looking into Cox properly. Enemies. Business, personal, all that.”
Lucy watched him for a moment—moves smoothly, light on his feet for such a big bloke—and then followed. Down to the hallway, 37past the ballroom. The techs were gone, but half-full glasses still studded the tables.
She caught up to him as they reached the front door.
“Ed, I need you to take this angle seriously.”
King stopped. Sighed. “When I spoke with Wilkes…”
Oh, Christ. God knows what she told him.
“Yes, stick close, right, I know—”
“No, listen.” He paused. “Shouldn’t tell you this, but I believe in transparency. Openness. Communication. So…” A deep breath. “Yes, Wilkes said to keep an eye on you. She’s worried. But she also said I’d be a fool if I didn’t follow any hunch you had. Said a lot of things about you, Wilkes. And d’you know what? Think she might be right.” He flashed a smile. “You’re an interesting one, DI Stone.”
She looked at him, then away. Simon’s face flickered through her mind.
“So,” he continued, “shall we say, meet at eight?”
Five hours? She thought about next steps, then nodded. “Fine. Have a vehicle?”
