Chameleon

Chapter 21

Chief Superintendent Piggott's ulcer was giving him gyp.

He belched loudly, but it did little to relieve the discomfort.

Some people, he knew, grew quite fond of their ulcers and even gave them names. Chief Superintendent Piggott was not the sort of man to give an ulcer a name. Had he been that sort of man, he would probably have called his ulcer Winston George Bannerman.

'Why me, Lord?' he asked, but the Almighty declined to answer. On the face of it, there was an open and shut case that not even Bannerman could foul up. The killer had filmed himself in the act, for Heaven's sake!

And then everything started to go wrong.

I should have guessed, Piggott told himself. Nothing Bannerman does is ever straightforward. It's like a law of nature. Like shit always flows downhill. And when it does, it always ends up all over Bannerman!

And now this. The final straw. An urgent fax from Whitehall, approved by the Commissioner himself no less. Some "spook" called Laker was on her way down her to start meddling. Piggott hated spooks, spies, secret service, call them what you like. A more supercilious, underhanded bunch of double-dealing little snakes you couldn't wish to meet. James Bond? He wouldn't last two minutes out on a beat. Well, Piggott promised himself, Bannerman's in charge of this case, so he can bloody well baby-sit, not me!

The Warren Street station was in uproar as Piggott left his office. Dozens of people, patrons and employees of Video Dome, lined the corridors, waiting to give evidence. Piggott snarled. Another of Bannerman's bright ideas! He pushed his way through the milling throng and burst like a summer storm into Bannerman's office. It was disappointingly empty.

'Typical,' Piggott muttered. 'Causes chaos, then buggers off!'

Piggott crossed to the cluttered desk, travelling more in hope than in expectation, and picked up Bannerman's diary. He flicked through the pages until he came to today's date.

The entry was just two words long.

"Gone fishing", it said.

Piggott belched painfully and left the room.

***

She was waiting for him.

Curled up on the doorstep like yesterday's milk bottle. Payne knew she'd be there. He'd sensed her more than an hour ago. Remarkable really, hers was such a small talent compared to his own. Desperation must have made her push herself to her limits, sending out her telepathic messengers to call him. Funny how they always took the form of shadowy birds. Dark and insubstantial they were, half glimpsed out of the corner of your eye, then disappearing no matter how quickly you turned around to confront them. Everyone had them in one form or another. Most people were incapable of using them, that particular door to knowledge forever welded shut. Even Payne had never mastered that particular art, whereas Sonia was actually quite adept, but then, he smiled to himself, she had a good teacher. They were flocking now, her messengers, overlaying his path, perching on the railings that led down to his flat.

She sat on the dirty concrete, her legs drawn up to her chin, eyes hollow and dark rimmed, chewing on a fingernail already chewed to the quick. As he appeared at the top of the steps and looked down at her, she scrambled to her feet, smiling nervously, licking her lips, as though in anticipation of a feast.

'I knew you were coming,' she said. 'I sensed it.'

Payne brushed past her and put a key into the lock.