The Whisper of Stars (12 page)

She pulled a flashlight from her pocket, selected the lowest setting and strapped it to her head. The memory of her father in the graveyard was somewhat indistinct. The details were fuzzy and she didn’t have the time or the gear to start digging up multiple graves. She needed to be sure. Two things she felt she did know. The first was that whatever her father had buried, he had done so in loose soil – a freshly dug burial plot – and the second was the date. That was burned into her memory. It was the last day she had seen her father alive.

She ran her finger along the books, stopped and tugged one from the shelf. Laying it flat on the desk, she opened it in the middle, flicking through the thin pages, scanning the handwritten history before settling on a name. A lady, Mrs Christine Bradley, aged 139, buried on the day her father had left: 15 July 2058.

Jen returned the book, switched off her light and snuck back out, retracing her steps to the main entrance. The moon had broken through the cloud and cast pale blue shadows across the misty graveyard. Jen pushed through long grass, working along the graves, hoping for a clearly marked headstone. She stopped at a stone that felt vaguely familiar and moved the grass aside. Mrs Bradley’s name was chiseled clearly on the stone, which still looked remarkably fresh. She stood and listened for a while, her breath drifting across the churchyard, nerves biting her skin.

With a deep breath she thrust her spade into the earth, relieved to feel the ground was hard but not solid. It took over an hour but eventually, three feet down, she felt the spade hit metal.

The hole was narrow, making it difficult to see, but Jen could make out a shape, something reflecting the moonlight. She knelt and reached in, working her hands around the object, pulling at the sticky mud, trying to define its shape. She grabbed her spade and pushed at the edges, sliding the spade underneath. A box popped from the sodden soil, which burped on its release, a large clump of sticky dark mud still clinging to its base. Jen lifted it out and sat at the graveside, exhausted. She was warm but she knew that would change quickly, the sweat already beginning to cool on her back.

The metal box was shallow and unadorned, as though it might have contained tools and screwdrivers once. She eased the earth away with her thumb and noticed a latch. Resisting the temptation to open the box, she placed it, mud and all, inside her rucksack. She needed to fill the grave first. She was almost done when she heard a sound. She looked up to see a figure approaching.

‘What have you found?’ the figure asked. A male voice, the accent unfamiliar.

Jesus, where did you come from? How could I have been so careless?

The man inched forwards. ‘Can I take a look?’

He looked to be dressed in dark combat fatigues. One thing was for sure: he wasn’t local. Another sound behind her. She spun to see another figure closing in.

‘I don’t want any trouble,’ she shouted, raising her hands. ‘Here, take it.’

She placed the rucksack on the ground and backed away, trying to get both men into view. The first silhouette moved towards it.

She flicked her head torch to full beam, forcing the men to raise their hands, shielding their eyes. Jen skipped forwards and kicked one of them square in the jaw, a good connection, sending his neck snapping backwards. The second figure extended his arm, at the end of it a dark shape glinting in the moonlight. She grabbed his wrist for support and bought her raised leg down hard across his knee, creating a reassuring sound, like a hessian sack splitting at the seams. He let out a high-pitched scream and collapsed to the ground, his gun spinning off into the darkness. Jen pulled her own sidearm and flicked between both targets. The first man was out cold, the other was making too much noise. She wanted to find out who they were, but those screams would alert others. She selected a sedative and darted them both, just to be sure.

Who are they? How did they know I was here?

She had scanned herself and her bike before leaving London and was sure she wasn’t bugged. She knelt and checked the men over quickly. They didn’t appear to be military or police. Mercenaries, maybe. Contractors, paid to track her.

She left the men and ran back to the farm. The droid had already alerted her to multiple new targets within the grounds. She crouched against a perimeter stone wall. Flashlights flicked through the window of her old bedroom. More lights downstairs and a lone figure standing next to her bike.

Damn it.

She needed to create a distraction, something to buy enough time to get her bike. She smiled as a small blue light on the front of the maintenance droid pulsed once, unnoticed by the busy team working methodically through the farm house. Jen activated the intruder alarm setting. A deafening siren made the man nearest to her physically jump before running towards the front door, his gun tracking frantically. Pulsing strobe lights burst from the hallway and Jen saw her chance. She ran to her bike, switched to electric mode and slipped quietly away. The sound of the siren and shouting faded.

She rode fast, not looking back, and didn’t stop until she reached a service station near High Wycombe. She had spent the journey convinced that an army of vehicles would close in on her, lights flashing. They would bundle her away, never to be seen again.

The service station was quiet, no cameras nearby. She killed the engine, lifted her helmet and pulled the metal box from her rucksack. Nervously she flicked the small catch open and lifted the lid. Inside, on a bed of smooth velvet, was a glass object, black and perfectly polished and about the size of a bar of soap, a strange red glow swirling in its centre. Jen was drawn to it and wanted to touch it, but decided to wait. She wasn’t safe here.

Unexpectedly and without warning, a word appeared in her mind like an old friend, a name from her past, a name she might have known but had somehow forgotten. She had no idea how she knew, but this object, hidden for decades by her father, had a name.

Histeridae.

It was called a Histeridae, and Jen couldn’t help feeling it was her destiny to find it.

Chapter 23

Nathan stumbled into the shadows of an alleyway, panting, head spinning. He raised his hands and watched his fingers dance and twitch. They were scuffed and bloody, but it wasn’t his blood – it was Matt Anderson’s. He paused for a moment, leaning against the chalky brickwork, the cold darkness and truth of what he’d almost done gripping him.

What is it with this body? Am I more volatile? Does this body enjoy violence?

He had heard that it could happen, your mind influenced by the host body’s previous experiences. Some kind of muscle memory affecting the brain.

A young couple walked past, glancing into the gloom, realising too late that there was a man hunched in the shadows. Nathan turned and looked, his wild eyes feeding their fear. They pretended not to notice and picked up speed.

Nathan’s mind drifted, lost in time, searching desperately for warmth. He tried to remember better times, looks they shared, breakfast in bed, dancing together, tenderness. He felt his hands steady and his heart rate settle and then a welcome change in the world, one he hadn’t felt for a long time. For a few beautiful seconds it was as if his wife stood there with him. He could feel her warmth, the smell of her close to him, a hand on his shoulder telling him he was doing okay. He cried for a while, wracking, painful sobs that threatened but never quite took hold, until eventually her spirit faded and he was alone again. The widower, half the man he had once been, a dark figure in an alleyway.

His composure returned slowly, along with the familiar process of beating weakness from his mind. There was no way he could allow himself to slip now.
Jacob Logan
. According to Anderson, just the mention of that name had triggered his wife’s murder. He waited a while longer for his breathing to settle before walking unnoticed from the alleyway.

By the time he reached the net café it was almost eleven. He paid for an hour and sat in a corner booth, facing outward. It was time to put his programming degree to the test.
If my students could see me now,
he thought, attaching a small device to the glossy terminal. The owner had needed to rummage out back for an old board. Everyone else was augmented. Nathan wanted to be as untraceable as possible, deliberately old school. He placed his fingers on the ancient keyboard. It was slightly sticky.

Right, Jacob Logan.
Let’s see what we can find out about you.

He began his work, hacking a local exchange and then hopping over to an internal Metropolitan Police site. From there he found a back door into what appeared to be a records database. He was already doing better than his attempts in Canada. Remote hacking was almost impossible these days. Locally bonded infrastructure was so much easier. He glanced around the café. No one was paying him any attention. He resumed, but it didn’t take long to confirm what he had suspected might be the case.

JACOB LOGAN:

DECEASED.

HEART ATTACK.

He wasn’t surprised. What he found more interesting was the lack of random information. Everyone had that, messy data scattered like pristine coins waiting to be unearthed. He spent another ten minutes searching before he was convinced. Jacob Logan’s data was too tidy, way too neat. Nathan sat back and rubbed his right eye hard.

Tailored.

That was the word. Logan’s life was trimmed and presented, professionally stitched, sifted and sorted. GCHQ would explain some of that, of course, and there were also military connections, but it was obvious. Someone had gone to a considerable amount of effort to ensure Jacob Logan was clean.

Nathan downloaded everything he could. There were encrypted files, too, but he would need more time and better equipment. He decided to get what he could. As file names flashed across his screen, one caught his eye.

Nathan flicked back. There it was. A profile image appeared, a woman. Intense green eyes and a shock of dark red hair. No wonder it caught his eye. She was striking, beautiful and yet tough looking. Nathan searched further. A name appeared.

JENNIFER LOGAN.

He smiled. Jacob had a daughter. Perhaps Matt Anderson had given him something useful after all. Nathan read quickly, trying not to think of Anderson lying on the concrete floor in that lock-up, trousers soaked in piss, face bloodied. Ten minutes later he grabbed the hacking device, wiped the keyboard down and stepped out into a thick fog that had draped itself over London.

He had made progress, but Jennifer Logan wasn’t going to be easy; nothing was, it seemed. She was police, Duality Division. The last thing he needed was Duality on his back, asking questions. Like the distant buildings shrouded in mist, the truth seemed more elusive than ever. He tugged his collar and walked. His wife’s spirit was still with him, warning him.

This woman might be your last chance, my love. Make it count.

* * *

After escaping Brook Mill, Jen spent the night at a roadside hotel, the kind that didn’t ask too many questions and still took cash. The box containing the Histeridae – if that was actually its name – never left her side. She lay on the bed and retraced her steps. How did they know where to find her? She thought back, trying to find mistakes, but each time she returned to the dream. She hadn’t told anyone, not even Mac. Did it mean Callaghan was right? Were the Government scanning people? Had they scanned her and known her plans, known she was going home? She slept with those questions tugging her subconscious like seeds of doubt finding fertile soil.

The following morning was the Sunday before Christmas. She spent it cruising the streets on her bike, searching for answers. When they didn’t come, she called the only person she could trust, the only friend she had left.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Jim McArthur answered, the panic in his voice unexpected.

‘Why? What’s up?’ Jen replied.

‘Peter Callaghan is missing.’ He spoke quickly. ‘I was worried about you. I kept calling. Are you okay?’

‘I just needed some space.’ It was limp, and she knew it, but she was also trying to process what he’d just said.

What’s happened to him? What have they done with Peter?

‘Mac, we need to talk,’ she said, her desperation now obvious. ‘Can we meet today?’

‘Yes, of course. Do you want to come to my house?’ There was a pause. ‘They’re out shopping.’

Just the mention of Mac’s wife and children sent a cold shudder through her. She knew that involving him might put them all in danger, but there was no way she could do this alone.

‘Jen?’

‘Yes. Sorry.’ Her decision was made. ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’

Chapter 24

Jim McArthur’s house was set back from the road in a leafy suburb just north of Beaconsfield. Pulling onto the driveway, Jen spotted his Audi. His wife’s car was gone.

Mac was standing in the doorway, and on seeing him Jen felt a pressure in her chest, an overwhelming urge to melt into his arms and burst into tears. She didn’t. They hugged and she did her best to maintain her composure. When she finally relaxed a little, he pulled away, holding her shoulders and looking her dead in the eyes.

‘I’m glad you called me,’ he said, eyes swimming.

It helped to know she wasn’t the only one fighting back tears. Mac led her through the hallway, which was covered in Christmas cards and decorated in blue fairy lights. A huge red sock stuffed with small presents hung above the kitchen door. The McArthur’s home exuded a kind of easy happiness that many families aspired to, a comfortable, harmonious existence built on solid foundations. Jen sometimes wondered if this kind of life might come to her one day, but she had no experience of it, nothing she could reference or build on. For now, she just enjoyed living vicariously in Mac’s version. She had always felt welcome here.

She followed him into the lounge, a large comfortable room with leather sofas and a log burner glowing in the centre. Two oriental rugs – picked up on their travels, Jen suspected – covered a pale wooden floor. In one corner was a Christmas tree with simple white lights and in the other a black upright piano. The house was tastefully decorated and ready for the holidays. Mac would often tell her it had nothing to do with him.