Free Bone Machine by Martyn Waites Page B

his life.
    And yet …
    The answers weren’t there. Only a sense of anticlimax. An absence where there should have been a resolute truth. Even after
     poring over the photographs, scrutinizing the tapes.
    Once the initial euphoria had worn off he had becomeangry with himself. It should have happened. The answers should have been there. The knowledge. But he was still in the dark.
     Just like all the other times. And he had thought that one would have been different. He would have to try harder. Do it again.
     Choose carefully and get it right next time. His studies had led him this far, his skills had become two well developed to
     stop now.
    He looked in the mirror, saw not his face but hers. Sewn up, ready to be received. Just before the life left her.
    That familiar tingling in his groin was still there.
    He thought again of those final few delicious seconds. Not of the lack of answers but of the physical act itself. The control
     over her body. The knife sliding in and out.
    Her last sigh.
    Heard echoes of the voices in the shadows. The souls. Telling him what they wanted next. Guiding him.
    He had to plan.
    And soon. Just in case Nell said anything.
    But not just yet. That familiar tingling in his groin. Her face; sewn up, ready to be received.
    He smiled. Closed his eyes. Not needing to view the tape to see it again.

8
    The Café Roma was on the corner of Mosley Street and Dean Street, in the heart of Newcastle’s City district. A converted bank,
     its high-ceilinged, marble-pillared halls had been architecturally rendered modern and spacious, retaining knowing nods to
     its past. It was bright and cool, all blond-wood furniture and dark leather sofas, shining chrome and spotlit glass cabinets.
     Pale yellow and cream walls. Two brown wooden fans moved lazily overhead, their actions purely decorative.
    A single coffee shop with Starbucks empire aspirations, it serviced a steady Monday-morning stream of office workers calling
     in for their lattes and almond croissants to take away, shaking misty rainwater from their overcoats and umbrellas as they
     entered, while a few commuters sat reading papers, books and magazines, eking out their pastries, swirling foam in the bottom
     of their mugs and looking at their watches, counting down until their time became someone else’s.
    In the corner sat a man. Middle-aged and balding, with his remaining hair razored short to his scalp, his clothes almost a
     parody of the office workers streaming in and out. His tailored suit was bright blue, with a white stripe way too wide to
     be pin, his shirt a vibrant, almost reflective yellow, his tie purple and floral, his shoes dark but highly polished. He sat
     with his Filofax and diary open before him, totting up rows of figures, making notes, stopping occasionally to sip from a
     small glass cup of espresso, watch the steady stream of customers coming in and out and throw appraising staresat the Eastern European girls working behind the counter. There was nothing lascivious or gratuitous in his look; his eyes
     spoke only of profit and loss, of commodity and expenditure. He watched not people on their way to work, but money pouring
     into his till. His eyes held no humanity, no warmth. They were reductive adding machines.
    They were the eyes of Marco Kovacs.
    He looked alone. He wasn’t. Sitting on the aisle opposite him and pretending to read the
Sun
was Christopher, his personal assistant. If there was any trouble, anyone giving him unwanted attention or approaching his
     table with aggression in mind, Christopher would be on to that person within seconds.
    Kovacs watched one of the staff in particular. Anita was in her late teens, blonde and pretty. Her uniform T-shirt and tight
     jeans accentuated her trim figure and pert breasts. Her smile, when she used it, combined with her lively personality, could
     be devastating. So devastating, hardly anyone noticed the now-faint cut lines on her arms. Her Lithuanian-accented English