Free Hive Monkey by Gareth L. Powell Page A

light of the orange streetlamps, she could see that the main room was a sparsely furnished studio flat, with a futon at one end and a small kitchen area at the other. Another door led off into a cramped and damp-smelling bathroom, comprising no more than a shower stall, toilet and sink.
    “This is it.” She reached out a hand and flicked the light switch. Beside her, Cole gasped. The walls were covered in photographs and handwritten notes; and most of the photographs seemed to be black and white surveillance photos of him. He stepped into the room, gawping around at the pictures, and Victoria followed. The glossy prints showed Cole shopping in his local supermarket, a basket in the crook of his arm; standing on the edge of a marina on a bright morning, holding a mobile phone to his ear; getting into a battered-looking blue Renault in an underground car park; browsing bookshop shelves; struggling back from the off-licence with carrier bags filled with bottles of whiskey and gin...
    “These go back months,” Cole said. “How long was he watching me?”
    In the doorway, Ack-Ack Macaque pulled the scarf from his face. He pocketed the dark glasses, and then fumbled around in his coat until he found the bag of banana and white chocolate cookies that K8 had baked, which he proceeded to eat.
    “It looks as if you’ve got a stalker,” he said, spraying crumbs. “I had one of those for a while last year. One of those gamer nerds who couldn’t let go.”
    This was news to Victoria. She raised an eyebrow.
    “You did? What happened to him?”
    The monkey grinned, exposing dirty yellow teeth.
    “Poor guy broke both his legs.”
    Victoria started to ask how, but then stopped and shook her head, deciding she’d be better off not knowing. Instead, she walked up to Cole, who was leaning close to the wall, reading the handwritten notes pinned beside each picture.
    “Any clues?” To her, the scribbled words were just squiggles on paper, utterly indecipherable.
    Cole tapped a picture of himself kneeling at a stone in a snowy memorial garden, a paper-wrapped bunch of flowers clutched in his hand. “It seems I’ve been under scrutiny for some time. At least since last Christmas.”
    “Any idea why?”
    “Not so far.” He turned to her. “But do you want to know something weird?” He pulled a note from the wall and held it out to her. “His handwriting is exactly the same as mine. Absolutely, spookily identical.” He shivered.
    Victoria peered at the paper trembling before her.
    “I’ll have to take your word for that.” She watched as he opened his shaking fingers and let the note fall, spiralling down to the floorboards. “Why don’t you sit down?”
    Cole rubbed his beard. He seemed agitated.
    “None of this brings us any closer to finding out who shot him.” He tapped his ribcage. “Or who’s been trying to kill me.”
    “I think we can assume for now that the same people are responsible for both,” Victoria said.
    The writer’s nose wrinkled. “Even if that’s the case, the question is: what am I going to do about it?” He glanced around at the walls, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Because poking around in this hovel isn’t getting us anywhere.”
    Victoria felt her fists tighten at her sides. She licked her dry lips, and swallowed her irritation.
    “Sit down,” she said quietly. She took a breath. “We won’t be here much longer. Have a rest.”
    Cole glared at her, but he sat on the futon. She left him there, muttering to himself and stroking his hairy chin, and went to see what the monkey was fiddling with. He’d been rummaging in the kitchen drawers.
    “What’s that you’ve got?”
    He held it out to her.
    “Another gun,” he said.
    “Is it the same as the last one?”
    “No, boss.” He tipped it into her outstretched hand, and she felt its weight. It was lighter then she’d been expecting. Also, it was like no gun she’d ever seen before. It looked like a pocket flashlight with