Dead Men's Boots by Mike Carey Read Free Book Online

looked up. He cast his eyes around the room as if someone at the back had just spoken and he was
     trying to work out who so he could hand out some lines.
    “Miss Bruckner?” he said in a querulous tone. Pen got to her feet, holding up her hand unnecessarily. Her fall of red-gold
     hair made her hard to miss even sitting down. As always, she looked much taller than her five feet and half a spare inch.
     That effect is even more pronounced when you’re facing her, staring head-on at her scarily vivid green eyes, but it’s noticeable
     even from the back. Pen may be a small package, but what’s in there was tamped down with a lot of force, and the lid barely
     stays on most of the time.
    “And Professor Mulbridge?”
    On the other side of the court, another woman who’d been scribbling notes in a ring-bound notebook looked up, flicked the
     book closed, and stood. She was older than Pen and made a strong contrast to her in a lot of ways. Matte-gray hair—the same
     gray as Whistler’s mother or a German helmet—in a well-sculpted bob; gray eyes flecked with the smallest hint of blue; an
     austere, thin-lipped face, but with a healthy blush to her cheeks that suggested a warm smile lurking under the superficial
     solemnity. She was dressed in a formal, understated two-piece in shades of dark blue, looking like a probation officer or
     a Tory MP, whereas Pen was wearing flamboyant African silk. The professor’s cool self-possession was clearly visible under
     the self-effacing smile and polite nod. Clearly visible to me, anyway; but then I go back a long way with Jenna-Jane Mulbridge,
     and I know where most of the bodies are buried. Hell, in a few cases, I even dug the graves. People who don’t know her so
     well are apt to take away from their first meeting a vague sense of heavy-handed maternal benevolence; and to be fair, if
     I were going to describe Jenna-Jane to someone who didn’t know her, “mother” might well be the first couple of syllables I’d
     reach for.
    “Here, Your Honor,” Jenna-Jane said mildly. Her voice said, “Trust me, I’m a doctor,” and she is, as far as that goes. Then
     again, so were Crippen and Mengele, and they both sold patent medicines in their time.
    The magistrate tapped the stack of papers in front of him. “And I presume Dr. Smart and Mr. Prentice are also in attendance?”
    “Yes, Your Honor” and “Here, Your Honor” came from somewhere off to my far right.
    The magistrate acknowledged them with a curt nod. “Thank you,” he said dryly. “You can all be seated again. Now, from what
     I understand, this is a question of the disposition of an involuntarily held mental patient. A section forty-one case, Mr.…
     Rafael Ditko.”
    Someone who looked like an extra on
Judge John Deed,
impossibly young and suave and dark-suited, stood as if on cue on Jenna-Jane’s side of the courtroom. The magistrate flicked
     him a glance but went on without giving him a chance to open his mouth. “Has there been a tribunal hearing?” he demanded,
     lingering on the word “tribunal” as though it were particularly tasty.
    “Your Honor,” the barrister said, holding up his own wodge of papers as if to prove that he was earning his salary here, too.
     “Michael Trevelyan, representing Haringey Health Authority. Yes, the review tribunal met three weeks ago. If you look in the
     court papers, you’ll see the minutes of that meeting. It took place at the Charles Stanger Care Home in Muswell Hill. In attendance
     were Dr. Smart, Mr. Prentice, and your colleague Mr. Justice Lyle.”
    “And the recommendation?” The magistrate rummaged in the depths of the paperwork again, looking a little put out.
    “The issue, Your Honor, is the transferral of Mr. Ditko from the Stanger Home to a separate, secure facility under the management
     of Professor Mulbridge—the Metamorphic Ontology Unit at Saint Mary’s in Paddington.”
    “I’m aware of the issue, Mr. Fenster. I asked about the