The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime 7 Part 38

I looked at her. "Are we talking little grey aliens?"

She smiled briefly, her scarlet lips standing out against the pale skin under the black mask. "Maybe I should check to see if he's been probed?"

"I think that was the least of his worries," I said. "This must have been a really bad way to die. Our victim had his organs ripped out while he was still alive."

Ms Fate busied herself taking samples from the body and the crime scene, dropping them into sealable plastic bags, and tucking them away in her belt pouches.

"Don't smile," she said, not looking round. "Forensic science catches more killers than deductive thought."

"I never said a word," I said innocently.

"You didn't have to. You only have to look at my utility belt and your mouth starts twitching. I'll have you know the things I store in my belt have saved my life on more than one occasion. Shuriken, smoke bombs, nausea gas capsules, stun grenades . . . A girl has to be prepared for everything." She stood up and looked down at the body. "It's such a mess I can't even tell which organs were taken; can you?"

"The heart, certainly," I said, standing up. "Anything else, we'll have to wait for the autopsy."

"I've already been through the clothing," said Ms Fate. "If there was any ID, the killer took it with him. But I did find a Press Pa.s.s, tucked away in his shoe. Said he worked for the Night Times. But no name on the pa.s.s, which is odd. Could be an investigative reporter, I suppose, working undercover."

"I'll check with the editor," I said.

"But what was he doing here? Research?"

We both looked around, and Ms Fate was the first to find a book lying on the floor, just outside the blood pool. She opened the book, and flicked quickly through it.

"Anything interesting?" I said.

"Hard to tell. Some doctoral dissertation on the cannibal practices of certain South American tribes."

I gestured for the book, and she handed it over. I skimmed quickly through the opening chapter. "Seems to be about the old cannibal myth that you are what you eat. You know; eat a brave man's heart to become brave, a runner's leg muscles to become fast . . ."

We both looked at the torn-open body on the floor, with its missing organs.

"Could that be our murderer's motivation?" said Ms Fate. "He's taking the organs so he can eat them later, and maybe . . . what? Gain new abilities? Run me through the details of the five previous victims, Detective."

"First was a minor Greek G.o.dling," I said. "Supposedly descended from Hercules, at many removes. Very strong. Died of a single knife wound to the heart. Chest and arm muscles were taken."

"Just the one blow to the heart," said Ms Fate. "You'd have to get in close for that. Which suggests the victim either knew his killer, or had reason to trust him."

"If the killer has acquired a G.o.dling's strength, he wouldn't need a knife any more," I said.

"There's more to it than that." She looked like she might be frowning, behind her mask. "This whole hands-on thing shouts . . . pa.s.sion. That the killer enjoyed it, or took some satisfaction from it."

"Second victim was a fa.r.s.eer," I said. "What they call a remote viewer these days. Her head was smashed in, and her eyes taken. After that; an immortal who lost his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, a teleporter for a messenger service who had his brain ripped right out of his skull, and finally a minor radio chat show host, who lost his tongue and vocal chords."

"Why that last one?" said Ms Fate. "What did the killer hope to gain? The gift of the gab?"

"You'll have to ask him," I said. "Presumably the killer believed that eating the werewolf's missing organs would give him shape-changing abilities, or at least regeneration."

"He's trying to eat himself into a more powerful person . . . h.e.l.l, just the G.o.dling's strength and the werewolf's abilities will make him really hard to take down. Have you come up with any leads yet, from the previous victims?"

"No," I said. "Nothing."

"Then I suppose we'd better run through the usual suspects, if only to cross them off. How about Mr Stab, the legendary uncaught immortal serial killer of Old London Town?"

"No," I said. "He always uses a knife, or a scalpel. Always has, ever since 1888."

"All right; how about Arnold Drood, the b.l.o.o.d.y Man?"

"His own family tracked him down and killed him just last year."

"Good. Shock Headed Peter?"

"Still in prison, where I put him," I said. "And there he'll stay, till the day he dies."

Ms Fate sniffed. "Don't know why they didn't just execute him."

"Oh, they tried," I said. "Several times, in fact. But it didn't take."

"Wait a minute," said Ms Fate. She knelt down again suddenly, and leant right over to study the dead man's elongated muzzle. "Take a look at this, Detective. The nose and mouth tissues are eaten away. Right back to the bone in places. I wonder . . ." She produced a chemical kit from her belt, and ran some quick tests. "I thought so. Silver. Definite traces of silver dust, in the nose, mouth and throat. Now that was clever . . . Throw a handful of silver dust into the werewolf's face, he breathes it in, unsuspecting, and his tissues would immediately react to the silver. It had to have been horribly painful; certainly enough to distract the victim and interrupt his shape change . . . while leaving him vulnerable to the killer's exceptional strength."

"Well spotted," I said. "I must be getting old. Was a time I wouldn't have missed something like that."

"You're not that old," Ms Fate said lightly.

"Old enough that they want to retire me," I said.

"You? You'll never retire! You live for this job."

"Yes," I said. "I've done it so long it's all I've got now. But I am getting old. Slow. Still better than any of these upstart latecomers, like John Taylor and Tommy Oblivion."

"You look fine to me," Ms Fate said firmly. "In pretty good shape too, for a man of your age. How do you manage it?"

I smiled. "We all have our secrets."

"Of course. This is the Nightside, after all."

"I could have worked out your secret ident.i.ty," I said. "If I'd wanted to."

"Perhaps. Though it might have surprised you. Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. Professional courtesy? Or maybe I just liked the idea of knowing there was someone else around who wanted to catch murderers as much as I did."

"You can depend on me," said Ms Fate.

Our next port of call was the Nightside's one and only autopsy room. We do have a CSI, but it only has four people in it. And only one Coroner, Dr West. Short, stocky fellow with a smiling face and flat straw-yellow hair. I wouldn't leave him alone with the body of anyone I cared about, but he's good enough at his job.

By the time Ms Fate and I got there, Dr West already has the werewolf's body laid out in his slab. He was was.h.i.+ng the naked body with great thoroughness and crooning a song to it as we entered. He looked round unhurriedly, and waggled the fingers of one podgy hand at us.

"Come in, come in! So nice to have visitors. So nice! Of course, I'm never alone down here, but I do miss good conversation. Take a look at this."

He put down his wet sponge, picked up a long surgical instrument, and started poking around inside the body's ma.s.sive wound. Ms Fate and I moved closer, while still maintaining a respectful distance. Dr West tended to get over-excited with a scalpel in his hand, and we didn't want to get spattered.

Dr West thrust both his hands into the cavity and started rooting around with quite unnecessary enthusiasm. "The heart is missing," he said cheerfully. "Also, the liver. Yes. Yes . . . Not cut out, torn out . . . Made a real mess of this poor fellow's insides; hard to be sure of anything else . . . Not sure what to put down as actual cause of death; blood loss, trauma, shock . . . Heart attack? Yes. That covers it. So; another victim for our current serial killer. Number six . . . how very industrious. Oh yes. Haven't even got a name for your chart, have we, boy? Just another John Doe . . . But not to worry; I've got a nice little locker waiting for you, nice and cosy, next to your fellow victims."

"You have got to stop talking to the corpses like that," I said sternly. "One of these days someone will catch you at it."

Dr West stuck out his tongue at me. "Let them. See if I care. See if they can get anyone else to do this job."

"How long have you been Coroner, Dr West?" said Ms Fate, tactfully changing the subject.

"Oh, years and years, my dear. I was made Coroner the same year Samuel here was made detective. Oh yes, we go way back, Samuel and I. All because of that nasty Shock Headed Peter . . . The Authorities decided that such a successful serial killer was bad for business, and therefore Something Must Be Done. It's all about popular perception, you see . . . There are many things in the Nightside far more dangerous than any human killer could ever hope to be, but the Authorities, bless their grey little hearts, wanted visitors to feel safe, so . . ."

He stopped and looked at me sourly. "You'd never believe he and I were the same age, would you? How do you do it, Samuel?"

"Healthy eating," I said. "And lots of vitamins."

"Why haven't you called in Walker?" Ms Fate said suddenly. "He speaks for the Authorities, with a voice everyone has to obey; and I've heard it said he once made a corpse sit up on a slab and answer his questions."

"Oh, he did, he did," said Dr West, pulling his hands out of the body with a nasty sucking sound. "I was there at the time, and very edifying it was too. But unfortunately, all six of our victims had their tongues torn out. After our killer had taken the bits and pieces he wanted. Which suggests our killer had reason to be afraid of Walker."

"h.e.l.l," I said. "Everyone's got good reason to be afraid of Walker."

Dr West shrugged, threw aside his scalpel and slipped off his latex gloves with a deliberate flourish, as though to make clear he'd done all that could reasonably be expected of him.

Ms Fate stared into the open wound again. "Our killer really does like his work, doesn't he?"

"He's got an appet.i.te for it," I said solemnly.

"Oh, please," said Ms Fate.

I moved in beside her, staring down into the cavity. "Took the heart out first, then the liver. Our killer must believe they hold the secret of the werewolf's abilities. If he is a shape-changer now, he'd be that much harder to take down."

Ms Fate looked at me thoughtfully, and then turned to Dr West. "Do you still have all the victims' clothes and belongings?"

"Of course, my dear, of course! Individually bagged and tagged. Help yourself."

She opened every bag, and checked every piece of torn and blood-soaked clothing. It's always good to see a real professional at work. Eventually she ran out of things to check and test, and turned back to me.

"Six victims. Different ages, s.e.xes, occupations. Nothing at all to connect them. Unless you know something, Detective."

"There's nothing in the files," I said.

"So how were the victims chosen? Why these six people?"

"Maybe the people don't matter," I said. "Just their abilities."

"Run me through them again," she said. "Names and abilities, in order, from the beginning."

"First victim was the G.o.dling Demetrius Heracles," I said patiently. "Then the fa.r.s.eer, Barbara Moore. The teleporter, Cainy du Brec. The immortal Count Magnus, though I doubt very much that was his real name. The chat show host, Adrian Woss, and finally the werewolf, Christopher Russell."

"This whole business reminds me unpleasantly of Shock Headed Peter," Ms Fate said slowly. "Not the MO, but the sheer ruthlessness of the murders. Are you sure he hasn't escaped?"

"Positive," I said. "No one escapes from Shadow Deep."

She shook her masked head, her heavy cloak rustling loudly. "I'd still feel happier if we checked. Can you get us in?"

"Of course," I said. "I'm the detective."

So we went down into Shadow Deep, all the way down to the darkest place in the Nightside, sunk far below in the cold bedrock. Constructed . . . no one knows how long ago, to hold the most vicious, evil and dangerous criminals ever stupid enough to prey on the Nightside. The ones we can't, for one reason or another, just execute and be done with. The only way down is by the official transport circle, maintained and operated by three witches from a small room over a really rough bar called "The Jolly Cripple". If the people who drank in the bar knew what went on in the room above their heads . . . they'd probably drink a h.e.l.l of a lot more.

"Why here?" said Ms Fate, as we ascended the gloomy back stairs. "Secrecy?"

"Partly, I suppose," I said. "More likely because it's cheap."

The three witches were the traditional bent-over hags in tattered cloaks, all clawed hands and hooked noses. The great circle on the floor had been marked in chalk mixed with sulphur and s.e.m.e.n. You don't want to know how I found out. Ms Fate glowered at the three witches.

"You can stop that cackling right now. You don't have to put on an act; we're not tourists."

"Well, pardon us for taking pride in our work," said one of the witches, straightening up immediately. "We are professionals, after all. And image is everything, these days. You don't think these warts just happened, do you?"

I gave her my best hard look, and she got the transport operation underway. The three witches did the business with a minimum of chanting and incense, and down Ms Fate and I went, down to Shadow Deep.

It was dark when we arrived, completely dark with not a ghost of a light anywhere. I only knew Ms Fate was there with me because I could hear her breathing at my side. Footsteps approached, slow and heavy, until finally a pair of night vision goggles were thrust into my hand. I nearly jumped out of my skin, and from the m.u.f.fled squeak beside me, so did Ms Fate. I slipped the goggles on, and Shadow Deep appeared around me, all dull green images and fuzzy shadows.

It's always dark in Shadow Deep.

We were standing in an ancient circular stone chamber, with a low roof, curving walls and just the one exit, leading into a stone tunnel. Standing before us was one of the prison staff; a rough clay golem with simple pre-programmed routines. It had no eyes on its smooth face, because it didn't need to see. It turned abruptly and started off down the tunnel, and Ms Fate and I hurried after it. The tunnel branched almost immediately, and branched again, and as we moved from tunnel to identical tunnel, I soon lost all track of where I was.

We came at last to the governor's office, and the golem raised an oversized hand and knocked once on the door. A cheery voice called out for us to enter, and the door swung open before us. A blinding light spilled out, and Ms Fate and I clawed off our goggles as we stumbled into the office. The door shut itself behind us.

I looked around the governor's office with watering eyes. It wasn't particularly big, but it had all the comforts. The Governor came out from behind his desk to greet us, a big blocky man with a big friendly smile that didn't touch his eyes at all. He seemed happy to see us, but then, he was probably happy to see anyone. Shadow Deep doesn't get many visitors.

"Welcome, welcome!" he said, taking our goggles and shaking my hand and Ms Fate's with great gusto. "The great detective and the famous vigilante; such an honour! Do sit down, make yourselves at home. That's right! Make yourselves comfortable! Can I offer you a drink, cigars?"

"No," I said.

"Ah, Detective," said the Governor, sitting down again behind his desk. "It's always business with you, isn't it?"

"Ms Fate is concerned that one of your inmates might have escaped," I said.

"What? Oh no; no, quite impossible!" The Governor turned his full attention and what he likes to think of as his charming smile on Ms Fate. "No one ever escapes from here. Never, never. It's always dark in Shadow Deep, you see. Light doesn't work here, outside my office. Not any kind of light, scientific or magical. Not even a match . . . Even if a prisoner could get out of his cell, which he can't, there's no way he could find his way through the maze of tunnels to the transfer site. Even a teleporter can't get out of here, because there's no way of knowing how far down we are!"

"Tell her how it works," I said. "Tell her what happens to the sc.u.m I bring here."

The Governor blinked rapidly, and tried another ingratiating smile. "Yes, well, the prisoner is put into his cell by one of the golems, and the door is then nailed shut. And sealed forever with pre-prepared, very powerful magics. Once in, a prisoner never leaves his cell. The golems pa.s.s food and water through a slot in the door. And that's it."

"What about-?" said Ms Fate.

"There's a grille in the floor."