Rat Runners (11 page)

MANIKIN WALKED WITH her back ramrod straight, her low heels clicking on the concrete of the path, a slim-line console tucked under her left arm. A large handbag swung from her right shoulder. When adopting a disguise she preferred to rely more on her ability to assume different character traits rather than make-up, wigs or prosthetics. When you were being surveilled by the WatchWorld cameras, the less that was fake about you, the better. Her posture and movement made her look several years older, as did her business-like style of dress. Right now, she looked every bit the regulation-quoting bureaucrat. Her obvious youth just made her appear more fearsome—a young fanatical believer in the system. One look at her would have convinced almost anyone that time spent in this young woman’s company would involve filling out forms.

She approached the building where Brundle had his laboratory, set on a grimy trench of a street lined with buildings whose windows were laid out in regular, Georgian, waffle-shaped fronts. She was surprised to see Punkin standing at a bus stop about fifty meters down the street. Manikin wondered how long it had taken for him to realize she’d stolen his wallet. Bunny was leaning against a litter bin a few meters away, staring at her phone and trying too hard to look casual.

Both Punkin and Bunny were wearing new piercings in their eyebrows. Manikin suspected the ball on each of those rings had a tiny video camera inside. It was Move-Easy’s favorite way of keeping tabs on his own people, though he didn’t normally bug his rat-runners. It looked like Punkin and Bunny were working for Easy now, but he was keeping them on a short leash.

There were also two men within sight that Manikin identified as being too attentively inattentive to what was going on around them, and both had face piercings. Move-Easy was clearly keeping a close eye on the lab.

Manikin walked past all of them without any sign that she had noticed them, and walked up to the front door of the tall, yellow-brick building. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted another figure—quite different from the others. It was dressed in a long gray coat, and was wearing a helmet she knew was equipped with state-of-the-art surveillance technology. The upright, dehumanized shape of the Safe-Guard stood on the corner of the street, taking it all in. Manikin felt small cool beads of sweat at her hairline, felt her pulse quicken slightly. Her disguise was geared to play on human nature, not to beat the technological tests of WatchWorld. If the asexual figure decided to stop her and question her, it wouldn’t need to check her identity card, which was a high-quality fake.

The Safe-Guard would be able to examine the contents of her pockets, see the fillings in her teeth and discover that her glasses did not have prescription lenses. Even with her colored contacts in, it might still be able to scan her irises; it could record and analyze her voice and look for identifiable signs of old injuries in her skeleton. And all simply by standing in front of her. She turned her attention back to the door of the building, checked the screen of her console, and pressed the second button in a column of buttons, buzzing the apartment directly below Brundle’s lab. A tetchy woman’s voice answered, and Manikin went to work:

“Is that Mrs. Caper? Mrs. Caper, I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Matty Bennell. I’m an Environmental Health Officer. I’m speaking to all of the residents in your building in connection with the death of Doctor Watson Brundle. I wonder if I might have a word? It’s very important and I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

Three minutes later, she was being ushered into an apartment on the fifth floor. Mrs. Caper was a weaselly woman with black eyes that suggested she knew she was a bit dim, that it was a source of constant frustration to her, but that she didn’t know what to do about it. Her hands were held poised perpetually in front her, as if she were drying her red nail varnish, or about to dip her hands in a sink. Looking at those inquisitive eyes, Manikin knew Mrs. Caper would use every minute of their time together to try and bleed her visitor of gossip on Brundle’s death. That was fine—gossips were a rich source of local information.

“I knew something waren’t right up there,” Mrs. Caper said, almost before Manikin was in the door. “I mind me own business, but that Brundle character was an odd sort.”

“Is that right?” Manikin raised her eyebrows. “How so?”

She was ushered into a living room that looked to have been furnished entirely from a budget flat-pack catalog. She sat down on a stained fabric-covered sofa, facing her host, who perched on the edge of a recliner.

“Comin’ an’ goin’ at all hours, he was,” Mrs. Caper said. “Only there was less of that over the last few months, since that kid moved in. The lad did some of his running around for him, so Brundle went out less. Here, what’s a health officer doin’ investigatin’ a death, then?”

“It’s a regulatory requirement, because of the circumstances of the death,” Manikin replied. “I’m not really at liberty to give out any details. I do need to know who was in contact with Doctor Brundle. Who was this boy? A friend of Brundle’s? A relative? Why was he living alone? Why wasn’t he in school?”

“Think he was a charity case,” Mrs. Caper said helpfully. “Just some kid. Think he was homeless before Brundle took him in. So, was our friendly neighborhood scientist doin’ some dodgy experiments then, eh? That why you’re here?” The woman gave Manikin an exaggerated conspiratorial look. “I can keep a secret. Was it summink dangerous? I saw in his door a couple of times, when I went up to tell ’im stuff—he had all sorts of stuff in there. Gadgets … tools …
chemicals
. I mind me own business, but he was up to some strangeness, I’ll be bound.”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Manikin said again. “Tell me more about this young man. Did he have a name? Can you describe him to me?”

“Didn’t get his name. He didn’t talk much. He was about thirteen, fourteen, fifteen or sixteen or so, maybe a bit older. Normally wore a hat, but his hair was cut short. Not sure of the color. Average-looking. Not too tall, but not short either. He a suspect, is he? The police haven’t been around here yet, askin’ any questions. Brundle get his ticket punched, did he? Someone do him in?”

“It’s under investigation.” Manikin pretended to enter the anonymous kid’s details on her console, as if they might be helpful. “Was he pale or dark?”

“Pale. But not really white.”

“Eye color?”

“No, don’t know. Why’s this important?” Mrs. Caper was looking increasingly frustrated with her visitor’s refusal to share any scandal, twisting her mousy brown hair and narrowing her eyes. Manikin needed to ensure her cooperation.

“It’s very important that I learn who was in contact with Doctor Brundle in the days before he died. It’s the only way we can hope to trace the source of the contamin—” Manikin pulled herself up short and her expression turned to one of embarrassment.

“The source?” Mrs. Caper said. “The source of what?”

Manikin’s apparent embarrassment quickly worked itself into a state of distress. “I … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Nobody’s supposed to know.” She leaned forward, speaking in a lower, more urgent voice, vulnerability showing in her eyes. “If I tell you, do you promise to keep this to yourself? I’m … I’m still new in this job. I could get in terrible trouble.”

“It’ll be safe with me, love.”

Manikin shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, pausing for effect and to play on her host’s burning curiosity. She was very good at lying, but you had to choose the right time for it. Lies had a tendency to get out of control if not used with care.

“Doctor Brundle contracted an infection, and we believe it was this that killed him. We don’t know where he picked it up, but we don’t believe there is any immediate risk to the other residents in the building, as it can only be passed by direct contact—person to person.”

“What was it?” Mrs. Caper asked in a tone of morbid fascination. “That killed him, I mean. What was the infection?”

“FX syndrome,” Manikin whispered. “It gets up your nose and causes a rot in your brain. It’s commonly associated with people who work with keyboards and pick their noses. If you don’t catch it early, the damage is irreversible.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“It is,” Manikin assured her. “So you can see, we need to track down everyone Doctor Brundle has had contact with in the last few days. It’s the only way we can trace the source of the contamination, and find anybody else who might have it, before they can pass it on. I’d be particularly interested in finding this young man you mentioned. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”

“No, not really. And the only other person I’ve seen up there is Brundle’s daughter. The one with the mark on her face. She’s in every few days. They get on well … I mean, they
did
get on well, I suppose. She’ll be very upset at her dad’s death, God love ’er.”

“Yes, we have her details,” Manikin said. “There’s nobody else you can think of? It’s absolutely vital we speak to anyone who had recent contact with Doctor Brundle.”

“No, that’s the only ones I know about …” Mrs. Caper said, the disappointment obvious in her voice. She knew she was coming to the end of her usefulness, and therefore the end of the conversation. Her face brightened slightly. “Unless you count the muggers.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, Brundle was mugged a couple o’ weeks ago. I think that kid upstairs scared them off, but Brundle got a bit beat up—had his bag nicked. Shook ’im up, I reckon. He didn’t look very
sick
after it, I ’ave to say. More
angry
. Heard him kickin’ stuff around his place a few times after that. He was a devil for gettin’ hisself worked up at the best of times—I mind me own business, but you know what these intense fellas are like. Anyway, this was worse. I reckon he could’ve done with a bit of counselin’.”

“I see.” Manikin pretended again to add these details to her console. “And do you know if he reported this incident to the police?”

“Nah, I doubt it. He weren’t a great fan of the police. In fact, I ’eard him rantin’ out in the hallway: ‘All these bloody cameras and we’re no bloody safer! Useless, intrusive shower of spying wazzocks are never around when you need them!’ Or summink like that. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the police never showed up here, although there was that peep— … that Safe-Guard what came ’ere. I can hear anyone who goes up the stairs here, and the elevator doesn’t work.”

“Well, that’s all very useful, Mrs. Caper,” Manikin said, getting to her feet. “Thank you very much for your assistance, and … and I’d really appreciate it if you could keep my little indiscretion to yourself.”

“It’s as safe as the bank,” Mrs. Caper assured her.

“I’m very grateful. Oh, would you happen to know when Doctor Brundle’s daughter was last here? We just want to confirm her movements.”

“That’d be last Friday night,” Mrs. Caper said. “She stayed over. Usually does when she’s been out on the town. I mind me own business, but there’s her, not even sixteen and she’s drinkin’ already. Daddy must be …
must have been
… a softer touch than her mum. She always stayed out late when she slept over here on a weekend. God love ’er, there’ll be no partyin’ for her for a while.”

After winding up her interview with Mrs. Caper, Manikin went on to talk to as many of Brundle’s other neighbors in the building as she could, but they had little to add to her picture of the scientist’s last days. When she emerged from the building, Move-Easy’s two apes were still visible—as were Punkin and Bunny, still in their same positions, still failing to look convincingly casual. She saw the Safe-Guard was also still on the street, standing in the same place. Manikin resisted the urge to look skywards, wondering what other surveillance had been placed on the area. There was no way of telling if the Safe-Guard was here to watch the building, or just on a random posting. Remembering what FX had said about Veronica Brundle being the subject of some kind of WatchWorld-style investigation, Manikin felt a quiver of nervousness. She and her brother had never dealt with that level of heat before.

She strode right past Punkin, confident that he wouldn’t recognize her and keen to test the effectiveness of her disguise. Turning the corner, she carried on down the street towards the nearest tube station. There was a WatchWorld display screen on the path, showing a group of teenagers having a melodramatic shouting match outside a chipper. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would normally have made the screens, but three of the girls obviously had implants. Their hair glowed in shimmering primary colors that changed every time they tossed their head. There was a lot of head-tossing going on. A figure stepped out from behind the screen, and Manikin’s heart missed a beat as a hand caught her arm and a voice asked:

“What are you doing here?”

IT WAS NIMMO. Leading her to the doorway of a derelict shop, he didn’t look happy. But with a face like his, it was hard to tell. For all Manikin knew, that could have been his party face.

“I’m sorry, who are you?” she asked.

“Spare me the act,” he said. “It took me a minute to figure out who you were, but I did, so somebody else could too. I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?”