Terrifying serial killer mystery set within the gritty Glasgow of the close to destiny, from the bestselling writer of the Logan McRae series.

There are worse issues than the dying penalty…

They name them halfheads: convicted criminals, surgically mutilated and lobotomized via the nation, then despatched out to do menial jobs in the neighborhood so everybody will recognize what occurs if you happen to holiday the legislations. There are not any appeals, no reprieves, and not anyone ever comes again. till now.

Dr Fiona Westfield, some of the most prolific serial killers Glasgow has ever obvious, is waking up. Surrounded via blood and loss of life and darkness.

William Hunter has risen in the course of the ranks for the reason that placing Westfield away; now he’s Assistant community Director, answerable for police activities. yet a regimen homicide research is ready to embroil him in an appalling conspiracy.

The titanic connurb blocks on Glasgow’s disadvantaged south part are able to explode. 11 years in the past the VR riots killed thousands – now an individual desires to begin all of them yet again. and should is being dragged again right into a previous he desperately desires to forget…

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Her eyes widened. She hadn’t been suspecting that. irrespective of how a lot political strain she used to be below, Director Smith-Hamilton nonetheless knew correct from improper. with a bit of luck. She sat there together with her mouth putting open for a second, gazing him. ‘You have facts? ’ Will nodded. ‘We’ve acquired corpses within the mortuary, either with strains of a chemical residue of their brains. It mimics the results of the syndrome completely. George has despatched samples off for research. ’ She leaned throughout her table and collected the datablock with the PsychTech records in it, turning it over in her fingers. ‘I don’t like this, William. I don’t like this one little bit. you will have expert me correct from the very begin. How dare you pass at the back of my again and organize a massive research with out my wisdom! ’ ‘I—’ ‘Your behaviour has long past speedily downhill ever due to the fact physician Westfield died. I checked with our counsellors, you haven’t made an appointment with any of them! ’ ‘I didn’t imagine it's going to be—’ ‘You will return on your workplace and make an appointment for per week of prolonged remedy periods. ’ ‘But—’ ‘Or you could pass downstairs and filter out your table. Your selection. ’ Silence. Then Will acknowledged, ‘Yes, ma’am. ’ ‘You will then make your self worthwhile and move supervise your workforce! Agent Alexander has one of many poorest clear-up charges I’ve ever noticeable. It’s presupposed to be your task to make him produce effects. ’ ‘Yes, ma’am. ’ ‘Shape up, Mr Hunter. form up or you’ll end up searching for whatever else to fill your day. Do I make myself transparent? ’ ‘Yes, ma’am. ’ ‘Now get out of my sight. ’ She sits in her toilet-paper nest, analyzing her beautiful new face in a stolen replicate. The skin’s swollen and puffy, black and blue, yet to her it’s attractive. Dr Stephen Bexley—God leisure his tortured soul—really used to be a genius. sooner than his unforeseen, messy, painful demise. The bruises will disappear inside twenty-four hours, so long as she retains taking the post-operative medications. The swelling will take a bit longer. It makes her face lumpy and bumpy, as though she’s filled her dermis with half-chewed fruit gums. Her lengthy blonde hair continues to be sticky and raveled, clinging to her head like strangled string. She can’t wash it until this night whilst the skinpaint has absolutely cured; the very last thing she desires is for her new face to begin melting. The handful of blockers she snapped into her neck after you have rid of Stephen’s physique have left her blissfully comfortable, yet she longs to escape from this dungeon, with its racks of bedpans and mounds of plastic sheets. She desires to consider solar on her new face. She slides out onto the storeroom ground and peels off Stephen’s previous surgical dress. He doesn’t desire it anymore: he’s all burned away. the garments Kris wasn’t donning while she and her boyfriend have been stuck in flagrante delicto are fresh and disinfected: washed by way of hand within the little sink. The lacy confectionary pretending to be Kris’s undergarments is a piece affordable and tarty for Dr Westfield’s tastes, yet she slips into them besides. The bra hangs on her, its cups empty and unhappy.

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