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  Red. Lots and lots of red, running from the living room into the hallway. She had to look, had to see, but wished sometimes she hadn’t made that choice. Wished she’d just gone back out again and pretended that everything was okay, that her parents weren’t in that living room being savaged, being eaten by something that looked so much like her brother—and yet wasn’t.

  She’d screamed, of course. Who wouldn’t? But all that achieved had been to make the creature aware of her presence, and turn its attentions on her. She’d snapped out of her stupor quick enough to run back out to the hall, but somehow it was there in front of her, blocking off the way to the front door. Leaving her no choice but to head upwards, up the stairs. Trapping her. She’d locked herself in her bedroom, a place she associated with safety—a place where she’d sleep soundly, no matter what shit was going on at university. A place that would no longer be safe ever again, she realised, as the creature shredded the door into toothpicks and broke through. The creature that was still wearing her brother’s face—wasn’t her brother, she knew that, but didn’t want to think about what had happened to him; not yet, she couldn’t handle it yet. She shoved the bed into it, but that barely slowed it down. Zoë remembered thinking to herself, at least if it killed her she’d be with her folks, with her brother. And she must have passed out or something, because the next thing she knew there were two more people in that room with her: one who was finishing hacking the thing that had been about to murder her to pieces with a bloody great axe; and one standing not too far away from her, looking down at her with a worried expression on his face. Looking down and holding his hand out to her ...

  Duncan.

  She looked across at him now, at his faraway gaze, and knew he was reliving a few moments from his own past concerning a boss at the programming place where he used to work and various employees who had been his friends. All he had really, as his own parents had died when he was only small and he’d ended up in a children’s home. These were things she’d managed to wheedle out of him eventually, though he was a tough nut to crack.

  He was suddenly aware that she was looking at him and it broke the trance. “Would you care to do the honours?” he said, shifting himself so he was shielding her with his body. So that it would look like all she was doing was bending down to talk to her aunt, maybe touching her hand.

  When Zoë was actually on a mission: and that mission was twofold. Establish that this was indeed Matilda Brindle spread out in front of them and not the beast. For all they knew this might be where he had chosen to lay low; it would be the perfect cover, after all, one of his own victims. Or, as Craddock had put it, walking pop culture regurgitator that he was: “Doing the Hannibal Lecter Silence of the Lambs thing.”

  Zoë took out the mirror, adjusted it so she could see Matilda’s reflection. No matter how good they were, they couldn’t fake that. Couldn’t hide who they truly were from that little piece of reflective glass ... thankfully, for them.

  The old woman was clean, the real deal.

  Second part of the mission was to establish that it was the beast who had actually done this to her. And for that Zoë needed to see underneath those bandages, get a proper look at how deep those wounds were. As gently as she could, she began to peel back the white strips of material on the upper arm, on the shoulder. She’d been steeling herself for the sight of this, but it still caused an intake of breath. The claw and teeth marks had been deep; so deep that these ones had needed stitching up and they were still weeping. Jesus, that bastard had made a real mess of her.

  And, looking up from the wounds to what was left of the woman’s face, the tears came for real. Zoë couldn’t help it, seeing the old lady like this. She should be at home right now, watching daytime telly with a brew and a chocolate biscuit, not lying here barely alive after being—

  But that’s what those things were all about, wasn’t it? Destroying lives. Those of the people they attacked and those who were left behind. Tearing them apart as easily as they did flesh and bone.

  “Zoë,” hissed Duncan as a warning, and she only had time to stand and turn before the nurse was there. Not the same one from the station, but her opposite number: a good twenty stone if she was a pound. Wearing a different coloured dress: darker, more senior. Staff nurse perhaps? thought Zoë.

  “What on earth is going on here?” the woman demanded when she saw the bandages that had been removed.

  “They ... they were coming off,” Zoë told her. “I was just trying to fix them and—”

  “What are you doing in here anyway? Who are you people?” She looked from Duncan to Zoë, then back again.

  “We ... We’re related,” said Duncan, the panic rising in his voice. “Erm, to the ... To Aunt Matilda,” he finished, sounding like the most guilty man alive. If Zoë had given an Oscar-worthy performance out there, then Duncan’s was worthy of a Razzie.

  The nurse, face scrunching up, looked back over her shoulder and said: “I can see I shall have to have a little word with Nurse Bishop and remind her of the visiting hours.”

  “It’s not her fault,” Zoë protested, “we only want to—”

  “Yes, I can see what you only wanted to do,” said the woman, nodding towards the bandages again. “It’s nearly time for them to be changed again anyway. So, if you wouldn’t mind ...” Her tone wasn’t quite as harsh as it had been when she’d arrived (maybe thinking that they’d put in a complaint or something) but neither was it welcoming. They should cut their losses and just get out of there.

  Duncan was way ahead of her, almost at the entrance of the room—where he waited for his companion. “She’s scary,” he said to Zoë as she joined him and they retraced their steps back up the corridor. Nurse Bishop watched them leave, a worried expression on her face, and all Zoë could do was mouth a ‘sorry’ at her for the bollocking the woman would get.

  “So...?” asked Duncan when they’d put enough distance between themselves and Able Ward.

  “It was our mark all right,” Zoë told him. “And if that’s the kind of thing it’s capable of ...” She paused, more because she wasn’t quite sure what to say next rather than for effect. In the end the rest of it got away from her and she just shook her head.

  They were coming up on the section with the tables, chairs and vending machines. “Come on,” said Duncan, placing an arm around her shoulders. “I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”

  In spite of herself, Zoë smiled. Maybe he did know women after all.

  Maybe there was hope for Duncan yet.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He sat across from her in the curry house, and couldn’t help staring.

  Gazing at the way her golden hair caught the light from those candles, the curve of her mouth, the way her eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled at something. The way she delicately sipped her water.

  Stop it ... Just what. The actual fuck. Do you think. You’re doing?

  This wasn’t good. Hunter needed to get a grip on himself. But still he found himself staring, so intently at one point he didn’t even notice Rachael had stopped talking.

  “Are you okay?” she asked him after a moment or two.

  “What? Yeah ... sure.” He flashed her an easy smile. “Sure.”

  “Are you sure you’re sure?” she asked and smiled back.

  Hunter nodded. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t caught her looking over at him a few times, giving him admiring glances. Checking him out. But that was hardly the point ... Or maybe it was.

  Maybe she felt it as well, that connection—call it whatever you wanted—that ... something he’d felt ever since he’d talked to her that morning. Something in his gut, something undeniable. They’d met before, he was certain of it, and not last Friday night either. Back then he’d hardly noticed her, was too focussed on the task in hand—the tracking (the losing of his prey). Had, in his head, stopped the
creature from taking either of those girls that night, whichever one it had its eye on—maybe both?—but assumed the trouble that had been caused in the process might have scared the beast off. As it turned out, Rachael had become a bit of a fixation for the thing and, having spent several hours with her now himself, Hunter could certainly see why.

  No, he told himself again. You should be focussing on the task in hand.

  Instead of which he was just delighting in her company, and he got the feeling it was mutual.

  He hadn’t intended things to go this way, had kept tabs on Rachael since speaking to her that morning, of course—in case anything should happen—but had only intended to go to back to her place later on to talk with her some more about the previous weekend, now that there was no doubt whatsoever about the creature’s involvement. Maybe check out the mother who had suddenly appeared out of nowhere, though that had turned out to be his suspicious mind working overtime.

  Hunter had pressed the buzzer and explained who he was, had been let in with a curt, “You’d better come up, then,” and come face-to-face with said mother. Well, almost face-to-face; he’d had his back to her when she opened the flat door, so he could do a swift mirror-check. He’d become quite adept at this, a quick glance to establish whether the person he was dealing with was human or not. A magician couldn’t have performed sleight of hand as deftly as Hunter.

  Rachael’s mother was okay ... at least as far as the ’shifter thing went. And though he could see a resemblance between the pair, this woman’s features had become distorted by bitterness and regret. “Mrs Daniels,” he’d said as he turned, and she’d pursed her lips at the title—as if any reminder that she was married pained her physically (he’d found out later on from Rachael this was because her father, Kathleen Daniels’ husband, had cut out on them when his daughter was only small).

  Unlike Rachael, her mother had insisted on seeing some ID and he’d produced another fake one which she’d scrutinised as closely as a diamond smuggler trying to establish whether his cargo was genuine or not. “SCI?” she’d said. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a specialist unit, regional and national,” he’d told her. “Dealing with serious crimes.”

  “Sounds made up.”

  “You can call my commanding officer—speak to her, if you like?” That would give Zoë a ‘thrill’, he felt certain.

  But she’d relented at that point, allowing him across the threshold but still keeping an eye on Hunter as he entered the living room. “I suppose you’d better take a seat,” she’d told him, calling for Rachael, who appeared just as he was settling down into a chair.

  Rachael was wearing a sleeveless blouse and a pair of jeans, had put on make-up, albeit subtle (and he wondered then if that had been for his benefit). He’d taken the hint from that morning and smartened himself up before coming round. Hunter was currently wearing a pair of trousers, a shirt and a tie ... loosely (all of which helped to portray the image of someone in authority, he hoped). He’d held on to the leather jacket, though, mainly because he was still on the bike.

  “Hello Tom,” she’d said.

  “Hey,” he’d said back, aware that Rachael’s mother was scrutinising every gesture, every movement: had winced when Rachael had used that name, the one that wasn’t actually his. Hunter didn’t think it was him especially, he’d seen this kind of thing before; Mrs Daniels was simply protective (he couldn’t say he blamed her; he’d only really met Rachael that morning and he wanted to do the same). Hunter was suffering for nothing more than being the wrong sex, copper or otherwise.

  He thought about telling Rachael how nice she looked, but decided against it. Apart from anything else, it would look unprofessional—and he wanted, needed the mother on side. Needed to gain her trust.

  “Maybe Tom might like a drink or something?” Rachael had suggested.

  He held up his hand. “I’m fine thanks.”

  Rachael seemed disappointed by that answer. “Well, I’d quite like one ... Coffee, if there’s one going?”

  “Another?” asked Mrs Daniels, but Rachael had just nodded. “You’ll never sleep tonight.”

  “Maybe I don’t really want to,” Rachael had answered, and Hunter got the sense that this girl had had more than her fair share of run-ins with the woman. More than her share of wins, as well.

  Mrs Daniels had tipped her head, gone off to what Hunter assumed was the kitchen because the next thing he heard was the kettle being switched on, the noise as the water started to boil.

  “Your mother seems ...” He hadn’t known quite what to say, or how to describe her without causing offence.

  “She’s an acquired taste,” Rachael said as she sat on the couch, curling her legs up beneath her. “But her heart’s in the right place.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Hunter found he was staring at her even then; Rachael was a good few years younger than him, it had to be said, and not at all his usual type. But there was just something ...

  Job in hand, he’d reminded himself, and it had been a little easier to focus back then. A little. “Now, getting back to the events of last Saturday, I—”

  “How did you come to be in this line of work, Tom?”

  He hadn’t been expecting the question—hadn’t been expecting any questions apart from his own—and it threw him, not least because the answer was more complicated than he was willing to go into with her. So he just said: “I ... I guess it’s just in my nature to right wrongs.” There was silence for a moment or two and he suddenly felt he needed to explain himself a bit more. “I think there has to be a balance. For all the bad things that happen, there needs to be something good. For all the bad ... people, there should be those who stand against them.”

  “So is that what’s happening now,” she asked him directly. “Something good out of something bad?”

  He opened his mouth, but before he could get her to clarify what she meant her mother was back with a tray of drinks. She was having trouble walking with it, carrying it, so Tom rose and crossed the room to help her, which she seemed to appreciate. She’d ignored both their requests and made them a tea each. “Milk, sugar?” she’d asked Tom, but he shook his head.

  As they’d sat there he made several attempts to question Rachael, all of which were either sidestepped or interrupted by her mum. “Is this all really necessary?” Mrs Daniels had asked at one point. “Can’t you see she’s been through enough?”

  He could—and that was exactly why he needed to know everything.

  In the end, Rachael just stood and announced that she needed some fresh air. “Again?” her mother responded.

  “Can ... can we maybe just go for a walk, Tom?” said Rachael, ignoring the remark. “And you can ask your questions then?”

  Hunter had shrugged, said: “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

  It definitely hadn’t been what her mother wanted, that was for sure. The woman protested about “going off with strange men” which only confirmed Hunter’s suspicions. “Mike, Will ... now this one.”

  “Tom’s a policeman, Mum.”

  “Like that means anything,” she’d replied.

  “I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.”

  Hunter assured Mrs Daniels that she would and she seemed to accept that—grudgingly. “Just don’t keep her out too long,” was her parting shot as Rachael had grabbed her coat and they’d stepped out of the flat. “She’s still not up to it.”

  Rachael had turned to him and offered, by way of an apology it appeared, “Like I said, acquired taste.”

  So they’d walked and they’d talked, about anything except what he’d come here to find out. After a little while, though, Hunter found he didn’t really care. He was enjoying hearing about Rachael’s childhood, her aspirations to be an actress, her ‘bold’ move to the city. She’d prodded him a few more times
, trying to get to the bottom of who he was and why he’d chosen this life for himself. All he’d tell her was that, in a way, it had chosen him, and she let the matter drop eventually.

  Rachael had insisted on going for a coffee at a place she knew, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “Oh, excuse me. It’s not the company, I promise.”

  Hunter had laughed. “No worries.”

  “Don’t know what’s come over me lately, I get so tired all of a sudden.”

  “Well, your mum was right about one thing—you have been through a lot,” he reminded her.

  One coffee turned into a couple, which turned into a suggestion that they eat. “I don’t know about you,” said Rachael, “but I’m starving.”

  “I could eat,” he’d said to her, but as soon as she’d mentioned food he realised he hadn’t had anything all day again and his stomach made a noise. “Yeah, I could definitely eat. But you should call home first, let your mother know I haven’t abducted you or anything.”

  She gave him a ‘do I really have to?’ look, then said: “Was that on the cards, then? Abduction?”

  He laughed again and told her to ring. When she said she didn’t have her phone with her—“Very rarely do!”—he’d offered her his mobile. He hadn’t been able to hear everything that was said, but he could tell from the tone of voice that Mrs Daniels was not a happy camper.

  “What did she say?” he asked when Rachael was finished.

  “She said ‘At least you’re going to be eating something’. But I don’t think she’s very impressed with your work ethics.”

  Hunter conceded the point. It must have looked funny, a cop taking the person he was questioning out for a meal, especially when you weren’t the most trusting person in the world. “Would you like me to speak to her?” he asked.

  Rachael shook her head. “I’m a grown woman, Tom. I can do what I like ... I don’t need her permission. Now let’s go and eat.”