To Snatch a Thief (19 page)

Without pausing, Hunter touched the square. ‘Open file UXD thirty two: Three previous victims,’ he continued. ‘Shiralee, Michael and Thomas Abbott.’

And there they were as she’d found them.

For a moment Skye was swept back to the horror of that room. She squeezed her eyes shut, but they were there behind the lids, just as she’d seen them at night in dreams.

‘Split screen,’ Hunter ordered, and moved the square against one corner of the second screen. ‘Forensic report on deceased: as in all victims, no sign of external or internal injury, no marks or needle-sticks, no bruising or abrasion indicating the victims struggled prior to death. Again, as previously, microscopic particles of unknown substance found in throat area, but here we finally got lucky.’

Anticipation rippled around the room; a collective holding of breath.

‘Forensics finally came good. Tests on food samples in the flat showed traces of the same substance in the carton of soy milk on the table.’

‘
Y-es!
’ Newman punched the air with his fist.

‘Two hours later that substance poofed into thin air. Conclusion: short shelf life once exposed to the atmosphere.’

‘So we got to it faster than with the other cases.’ Newman commented. ‘Or they screwed the damn lid back on quick.’

‘We can’t tell.’

‘Does it prove it was murder?’ Corporal Smith asked. He had the world-weary look of a man who’d been working all night and was running on empty. Skye knew none of them had time off since the spate of deaths started; it was beginning to show.

‘We’ll get to that. Hunter split the screen into three, moved the memory square again. The map of Hammersmith, Skye had seen in his office flowed from it. Three close-grouped red dots decorated an area she recognised as her old street. ‘As you would expect, there were no surveillance cameras inside the tenement itself; one vandalised in the street outside. Cruiser patrols reported nothing suspicious. No chip-scanner locks on flat door. Somebody could have bunged the landlord for the key codes - he’d definitely be up for it - watched the victims go out and replaced one carton of soy milk with the tampered one.’

‘Motive, Lieutenant?

‘None that we can ascertain. Interviews with deceased’s family and friends indicate they had no contact with ex co-habit, the father of the two boys. No known acquaintances with grievances or grudges plus, when you link them to the other cases…’

‘It doesn’t fly for me.’ Newman shook his head. ‘It’s not target specific. None of the previous deceased groups knew one another, there’s no connection between any of them.’

‘Okay, two possibilities.’ Hunter held up two fingers. ‘One: some maniac, with a highly advanced knowledge of chemicals, picks victims at random. Breaks into their homes and leaves contaminated food. Two: the food, milk in this case, gets doctored at source.

Again, the victims who ended up with it were not targeted specifically, just unlucky. I don’t need to tell you what would happen if the media got hold of that theory.’

‘So, do we recall the product?’ Smith offered. ‘Get it off the shelves?’

Hunter shot a look to Captain Yao who spoke for the first time. ‘The General’s tried to convince The Health Department to do just that,’ he explained. ‘But they say, rightly enough, the public aren’t stupid. They’re afraid there’d be mass panic. Also,’ he added, clearly frustrated. ‘They say Sydney Moyer hadn’t drunk milk, and there was no trace of it in the carton in his dispenser. We need more before they’ll sanction a total recall.’

‘I want to know where the victims bought their food supplies.’ Hunter took up the thread. His eyes panned to Skye, held for a moment before moving across the room. ‘Cross-match couriers, freight depots, manufacturers. The first victims wouldn’t have automated re-ordering. They’d have shopped in the old-fashioned way. We need to find out where.’ He tapped the first screen with the back of his hand. ‘The dispenser in the Abbott’s case was programmed to re-order from Stocklands One-Stop Warehouse. That’s where we start. Smith, you’re with me. We’ll have a talk with management. Get a feel of how the place is run.’

‘General Redwood’s willing to fast-track a warrant. Forensics should be able to start going through Stocklands this afternoon,’ Captain Yao promised.

‘This is an extremely sophisticated toxin,’ Hunter continued. ‘There’s a laboratory somewhere with the capabilities of making it. So we look at research facilities, universities, hospitals, clinics, state and privately owned. We run searches on employees in all the above who may have connections to fringe groups, cults, extremist religions, fanatics or any damn thing that springs to mind.’

Almost, Skye almost raised her hand, but a sharp look from Hunter stopped her.

‘Maybe some nutter with a beef against poverty, sir?’ Dawson pointed her empty cup at the splatter of red dots on Hunter’s map. ‘Thinks they should be humanely put out of their misery or some such shit.’

Skye wondered if anyone else caught it; the slight hesitation, the fractional change in his eyes before the shutter came down. ‘It’s an angle.’ Hunter shrugged. ‘We’ve got precious little to go on, so follow up any lead you can.’

.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Skye felt a quiver of excitement. She was part of the investigative team. They’d left at first light, flying high, flying fast through the crisp air. Below the Dart’s runners, an ice ambulance skated across James Park marina, a second close on its stern. A second cargo ship lay docked at The Palace. In the distance, a helicopter scrambled from Parliament Tower. Down on the ground, the eerily silent body pods that scooped up human remains from the undertakers and morgues around the city and took them for disposal, were finishing their grisly task.

‘I’ll have audio engaged,’ Hunter informed her with a light smile. ‘Do you want to hear what it sounds like?’

‘Pervy is what it sounds like,’ she muttered, but curiosity won. ‘Okay, show me.’

He reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket, drawing out an oval object that fit snug in his hand. ‘Top section,’ he explained. ‘Tracker.’ A series of intersecting lines pulsed green. ‘Obviously, because the target’s close at the moment.’ He smirked when she spluttered. ‘They’re static, but once you move off they’ll get active.’

‘Bully for them.’

‘Bottom section. When I activate this button…’

The box emitted a faint, but encouragingly regular thuddumph, thuddumph to a background noise of moving air. ‘Holy, hell. Is that me?’ The duet with herself was deafening.

‘I’ll turn it off before you blast our eardrums. We’re nearly there.’

He dropped to street level outside the tube station in Wood Lane, illegally double-parking in a transit lane and ignored the blast of horns. Even at this early hour, the crowds here were thick. Many, Skye noticed, eyed the Dart with dislike, some with suspicion, while others melted quickly out of sight. In her former life, she would have done exactly the same.

She had dressed in her own clothes: worn jeans, thick baggy jumper under an old padded jacket, and a scuffed pair of kickers that had seen better days. As she emerged from the warmth of the vehicle a biting wind had her pulling a green woolly hat down low on her head.

‘I’ll come back for you when you’re ready,’ Hunter said. ‘Here.’ He shoved a package and drink cone into her hands. ‘In case you get hungry. Don’t want to find you on a slab in the morgue.’

Just as well he’d muted the machine, Skye thought, because her heart did a series of flips. ‘Right. Thanks.’ She shoved her hands, with the packages, into her pockets and, shoulders hunched against the weather, merged into the press of bodies, and back into her past. A few minutes later she heard the Dart drive away.

To irritate him, she kept up a murmured commentary. ‘Pedestrian traffic heavy, sir. Taking avoiding action into the curb to avoid grossly fat mother and snotty-nosed kid… Bugger, knew I should have worn boots – gutter’s all slushy. Right, sir, back in the main stream now… Hey! Use the cycle lane, morons. Stupid pedalists… Yeah, you too, zoner. Upping a finger, sir.’ Skye grinned, wondering if Hunter’s eyes were crossed yet. This was fun. ‘Sir, turning off main street, less people, but a seriously solar bum in front – probably gay though as he just checked out another bloke. Okay, soy burger vendor coming up on corner…he’s got hot chestnuts too. They smell awesome. Actually, a cup of tea would really warm me up. Hi there.’ She stopped, spreading her hands over his brazier. ‘Just a tea please, milk, no sugar. Oh, hang on a minute.’

Her klip bleeped. Hunter’s furious face burned a hole in the screen. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Skye grinned. ‘My job, sir.’

‘D’you want bleeding tea or not. I got a queue waiting here?’ The vendor, standing one hand on hip and waggling a Go-cup with the other, huffed out a breath.

‘Yes, sorry. Um, before you pour it. I’ve got an allergy to some brands of soy milk. Which one d’you use? Sorry, to be a pain.’ She turned to the woman sighing behind her. She had a music bead in her ear so, with exaggerated mouth movements, Skye mimed,
sorry
. Really, she thought, I should be on the stage.

The vendor rolled his eyes but held up a carton. Skye angled her klip so Hunter would get a good view. ‘Um. Call me picky, but what supplier did that come from?’

‘You having a laugh? It’s a bleedin’ cuppa tea.’

Smiling sweetly, she ignored the impatient mutterings behind. ‘No, seriously, it does make a difference. Some derivative brands – instant eczema eruption. Gross.’

‘You saying I use cheap milk? I get if from Stockland’s, and it ‘aint fake. You get sick, you take it up with them. Now buy it or clear off.’

‘No,’ Skye said, trying to look disappointed. ‘I’d better not risk it. Thanks anyway.’

The klip was almost vibrating on her wrist as she walked away. ‘Don’t ever pull another stunt like that,’ Hunter barked. ‘Use that verbal diarrhoea you’re suffering from to let me know, beforehand, what your intentions are. Is that clear?’

‘As crystal. I was never gonna to drink it, but nobody was keeling over in the street, so it would have been okay.’

‘Get on with it, Forrester.’ He rolled his eyes, much like the vendor had, but she saw his expression change to what might have been approval.

The surroundings grew poorer, the buildings more grimy. The hunched pedestrians splashing through the windy streets moved with little purpose other than to find shelter from the biting cold. She’d grown silent as her steps took her back to her roots.

The sleet eased to a drizzle when, on turning into Falcon Street, Skye slowed. A dozen feelings swamped her: regret, longing and an overwhelming anger. On one side, sad, derelict buildings, burned to the ground during the revolution, remained untouched for over fifty years - a playground for slum-kids and rats.

Directly ahead, an abandoned car, stripped of anything useful and a lot that wasn’t, was slowly rusting to dust. A man uncurled himself from the interior, and started towards her. His clothes hung loose on his thin frame and untidy, matted hair fell over his shoulders. His fierce eyes, glittering in his ravaged face, settled on Skye as he approached. She caught the foul smell of stale beer and sweat. The man sucked the remains of his teeth.

‘Hello, Cricket.’

‘Bleeding ‘ell.’ He stopped in his tracks, blinking hard. ‘If it ‘aint Tanya Forrester’s ghost.’

‘It’s Skye, Cricket. People say I look like Mum. How’s things?’

‘Ranger’s lost to Celtic…again.’ His face scrunched up like a child’s.

She made sympathetic noises, stamping to thaw her frozen toes. ‘That’s too bad.’

‘Yeah. Heard you got snatched.’

‘I did. I got out. Same squat?’ Skye nodded towards the wrecked car. ‘Must be getting cold in there.’

His face took on a sly look. ‘You got enough on you for a jar? Help keep body and soul together?’

He’d aged in the years since she’d seen him: his yellow skin stretched too tight over prominent cheek bones. He looked frail and sick. ‘Maybe. Here, these will do you more good.’ He fell on Hunter’s sandwiches, ferreting them away amongst the folds of his grubby coat. Skye hoped he’d stay sober long enough to eat them.

They glanced over as two skinny boys and a skinnier girl slunk from one of the buildings on their side of the street, rounded the bonnet of the wreck and peered into the interior. Their faces were pinched and blue with cold, but cheeky. With the wobbly gait of an alcoholic, Cricket turned on them. ‘Gerroff! Leave my things alone. Bloody kids, I’ll have your hides, see if I don’t. Go on beat it!’

All three pulled faces and stuck two fingers in the air before racing off, laughing.

‘You used to chase me and Ashleigh like that,’ Skye grinned. ‘You’d nothing worth pinching; we just like to set you off.’ Knowing only too well what was crawling on his skin, she steeled herself to take his arm, ‘Seeing as the pubs aren’t officially open yet… Does Horse still work at O’Malley’s?’

He brightened. ‘Yes. I’m barred from going inside, though. Have to go round the back and whistle. Horse sees me right.’

It was slightly less cold around the back of the pub, although the smell from the bins was revolting. From her perch on a barrel she looked around, remembering hygiene was not Horse’s strongpoint. Garbage, that had probably been there when her father sang for their supper, was piled, mountain high, against a teetering fence. When something moved against Skye’s foot, she kicked out and saw a sewer rat slink away.

‘Sure I can’t get you anything, darlin’?’ Horse, a man the size of a small house, hence his nickname, with coal black skin and a cap of white curls, came striding out of a back door and handed Cricket a tankard. His beaming face was lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘It’s good to see you again, girl.’ The rumble of his bass voice echoed like thunder. ‘You don’t come often enough.’ Giving her a crushing hug that rocked the barrel, his eyes moistened. ‘Your dad was one of the best, we all miss him. He shouldn’t have died like that…’ Horse wiped his mallet-sized hands on a stained apron. ‘Shouldn’t have. ‘Specially so soon after your ma. She was a looker; pretty as a picture, and there you are her spittin’ image.’