The Bug House by Jim Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

call them
colleagues
. ‘
Colleague announcement: would a colleague please go to aisle six
. . .’ And off they go, with their bucket and mop, thinking they’re making a significant contribution to the hive.
Jesus
, she thinks,
the most frightening thing about this headlong assimilation into corporate-speak is that people have just sat back and accepted it
.
    Severin’s late. He’d said he might be, and his tone had suggested that he didn’t give a shit if he was. During the course of their meeting last night, Ptolemy had got the distinct impression that the world marched to Sam Severin’s beat and she’d better keep in time.
    He’d told her to come plain-clothed, which is why she’s wearing jeans and Uggs and one of Ray’s old rugby shirts under a fleece jacket. She wonders, though, if maybe she’s
too
plain-clothed. Maybe she should have worn a blouse, or a skirt, or at least something more feminine. She wonders, as she sits in her car watching the colleagues trudging into the supermarket’s gaping, floodlit maw, if she just looks like a plain-clothes handler waiting to meet her undercover contact.
    Shortly after eight thirty a black Ford Focus enters the car park and swings into the space next to her vehicle. The thud of the bass speakers cuts abruptly as Severin kills the engine. He climbs out and crushes his cigarette under a boot. He opens the back door of Ptolemy’s car and gets in. She immediately smells smoke and sweat and the faint tang of stale booze.
    ‘I don’t have long,’ he says, and when she looks in the rear-view mirror she sees his dark eyes staring straight back at him. ‘And I’ll need you to work fast, too.’
    ‘No problem. What do you want me to do?’
    He reaches into his jacket and hands her a battered padded envelope. ‘That’s the first lot of paperwork. Get it copied and I need the originals back. There’ll be more where that came from.’
    ‘What do I do with the copies?’
    ‘You log them. And then you crosscheck them. And you make fucking damn sure you don’t make a mistake, because when this goes down the case against Tiernan has got to be watertight. Understand?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Good. Then I’ll be off. I’ll meet you here tomorrow, same time.’
    He opens the door and swings his leg out.
    ‘What if I need to contact you?’ she says.
    Severin frowns. ‘You don’t, DC Ptolemy.’
    And with that he is gone.
    Nobody in the squad knows what time Una Cattrall arrives at the Bug House in the morning, because she is always at her desk before they are. But then she is the gatekeeper, and none shall pass without her permission.
    ‘Mr Vos will be in later,’ she informs Seagram, eyeing the dishevelled Huggins with suspicion. ‘He has a meeting at headquarters.’
    ‘Thank you, Una,’ Seagram says primly as Una buzzes them through the security door and into the squad room. ‘I was aware of that.’
    It’s just before eight, but Fallow and Mayson Calvert are already there. Fallow’s normally red cheeks have an even rosier glow to them this morning, and his collar-length hair is still damp.
    ‘Where’s the boss?’ he says.
    ‘HQ,’ says Seagram, hanging up her coat. ‘He’ll be in later.’ She looks at him suspiciously. ‘What’s up, John?’
    ‘Brains has discovered something very interesting,’ Fallow says, putting his hands on Mayson Calvert’s skinny shoulders.
    ‘Time travel?’ says Huggins, heading for the coffee percolator. ‘Anybody gone for bacon sarnies? Where’s Ptolemy when we need her?’
    ‘Tell them, Mayse.’
    Mayson clears his throat. ‘I did a thorough check of all known organizations, criminal or otherwise, that favour branding or tattooing as a form of initiation.’
    ‘Jesus Christ, Johnny-boy! Have you pinched my mug?’
    ‘No I fucking haven’t. Listen to Mayse, will you?’
    ‘Worldwide, there are over 17,000,’ Mayson continues. ‘You see bodily mutation – or is it art? – is viewed by some as being the ultimate