Before Jamie made it out of the building he was cornered by a reporter who had unwisely picked Miller's mysterious disappearance as a point of interest. Either that or he was still wafting around hoping for another lucky snap of Tucker grinning at his P.A. like a lovesick cunt. There wasn't much Jamie could do about the latter so he decided to have a bit of a shout instead. He cracked his knuckles as the reporter honed in with the usual barrage of rubbish.
"That a, 'no comment' then? Where is he? Holed up in a needle den – dodging child support payments – or has he finally joined the welfare queue now that his career has shattered on the rocks?"
Jamie stalked the man from the Daily Mail into one of the towering glass walls so hard that his backside became a Macy's display. "Firstly, you D-minus hack, Dan Miller doesn't have any children – unless you were referring to Malcolm Tucker in which case you and I both know that his ghoulish offspring haunt the hallways of your offices for shits and fuckin' giggles. Pulling all the cords out of yer cameras. Fucking around a little with the spellchecker on your laptop. That's why yer paper's been such a fucking shit-storm of cockups for the last two centuries.
"Secondly, I don't 'ave to tell you where Dan Miller is because it's none of yer fucking business. You're not his P.A. I'm not his fucking P.A. And just between you and me, my over-easy, vlog-dependent little rodent, as I told them all earlier Miller is dead to me for missing that fucking interview that I, personally, had to ex-foliate a lot of crucial hair follicles to get him into. It's all around us – see – my hair carpeting the halls of this miserable institution until one day I'll be left with a resident moon on my head like fucking Julius – the 'all shining' orb."
The reporter did his absolute best to recover some dignity. A difficult task with Jamie's balls practically rubbing against his leg. He was like a furious Scottish terrier yelping on repeat. "Are – are – are you saying that Dan Miller is gay?"
Ravines formed in Jamie's forehead so deep that they could drown the Valles Marineris.
"No. No." Jamie peeled the reporter off the glass and wrapped his spiny arm around him. "I'm saying that he's fucking dead. Dead to your story unless you want to print all yer papers with press plates from the 1700's. I can see you down there now, latherin' up in ink – your shrivelled digits matching your tiny, ruined cock from all the shit holes you've been sticking it in lately. Oh I know you've been following people you shouldn't and let me tell you, if they found out what I found out your desiccated pygmy cock will be the least of your troubles. Now, if you'll excuse me I have a politician to lever out of a crack den and you have a story to plagiarise."
Jamie felt better after his little shout. It always helped to clear the air – to practice on hacks. It wasn't like they had souls. Jamie used to be one so he could vouch for the bottomless pit that existed in their chests. It was just a vacuum sucking in all the misery of the world which was excreted via the Weekend Edition.
He loathed the cold and wrapped his scarf around his neck three times before he embarked on the walk to Dan Miller's house. What he found was a frightened pack of hyenas haemorrhaging evidence. They backed away from him as he approached.
"Beautiful fucking morning, don't you think? Sky's a beautiful cunt-grey. Nice even spread of pure blandness that has come to define our lives."
"Hi, Jamie..." Glen half-raised his hand.
"Did Malcolm get the facts mixed up because you look like a fucking corpse, Glen."
"We're trying not to use the word, 'corpse'-" Ollie started to reply before he was cut off by a miserable Glen.
"I've been standing here with these two for over an hour. Believe me I've heard every unsavory variant on that particular observation."
"A fucking ice-corpse dug out of the permafrost on some Mongolian pass with hand sewn boots and Mollivirus sibericum for fucking decoration."
"Right. Not every variation."
"Where the fuck is he, then?" Jamie lost patience for sparring. "Did you stash him in a bin out back or am I going to have to fish him out of the lawn?"
"We have not touched him, Jamie," Terry replied. "He is exactly as we found him."
"Well, almost exactly." Ollie added. "Glen tripped over him trying to molest the corpse."
"That is not true Ollie. I don't know why you insist on saying things like that."
There was a genuine moment of humanity where, upon seeing Miller's corpse, Jamie paused. It was only a flicker. The brush of wind against a candle. An instant later he'd knelt on the ground and carefully pulled back Miller's jacket to reveal the knife protruding from his heart and sheets of frozen blood.
"Christ o' fucking mighty..." Jamie narrowed his eyes at Miller. "He's even smiling in fuckin' death. Are we sure he's not from one of those creepy wax exhibits 'cause it looks like I could toss a match down there and he'd catch alight there's so much plastic under his skin."
"Jamie – what happened to the side of your face?" Ollie asked, leaning in to get a look at the fresh bruise that was making itself known under his cheekbone.
"What?" Jamie reached up to touch his face. "Oh tha'? Got so excited on a kill I walked into a sodding wall. The fuck you want ter know for?" All three of them had backed away slightly – eyes full of fear. "Oh come on not a literal kill you twats – I was tearing shreds of a Daily Stalker hangin' about Tucker's office. What, you think I skulk around suburban shit-shows like this and massacre stars from Days of Our Lives?" Jamie gestured to Miller's corpse beneath them. "If I was going to indulge in a bit of light murder I wouldn't waste it on someone as fucking dull as Miller."
"You – walked into a wall?" Ollie wasn't sure he could let that go. The image of it had his lips turning into a curl he was about to regret. "The Great and Powerful underling of Satan had an accident with a transparent wall..."
"Sorry to interrupt this extremely important discussion," Terry stepped between Jamie and Ollie, inadvertently saving Ollie from the knackers. "But can we please try to focus on the issue at hand? The issue being Dan Miller. If we leave him here too long he might thaw."
"Thaw? Terry – it's minus-infinity out here..." Ollie muttered.
"No – the cyan orb has a point. You three-" Jamie jabbed his finger in their general direction. "Have yer been in his house, yeah, spewing up forensic shit everywhere – stomping about leaving bloody prints over the walls? Yeah. Fuck. Well then we'll all have to fucking stay 'ere."
"Stay – for what?" Glen frowned.
"Fer the rozzers and their fuck-off blood hounds."
"Jamie – who are you calling – Jamie! This is all your fault Ollie." Glen hissed.
"My fault? You're the one who couldn't cough up a decent insult on Miller when it mattered."
"Are you trying to say that if I'd been more inventive with my swearing, Dan Miller might not have been murdered?"
"Well – I – yes."
"HUSH!" Jamie snarled.
"There it is!" Sam called out from his office.
Malcolm waddled down the hallway carrying his weight in toxic cabinet filth. He dumped the files on the floor with the rest of the deluge he'd been picking his way through. "Well don' keep us in suspense, darlin'. Try a bit o' sound, yer know?"
She turned the sound on and the room filled with the breaking news story of the murdered MP found in the snow outside his house. Tucker paused, kneeling in the rug which he realised was two inches deep in crumbs and bits of torn-off limbs from previous kills.
"God, look at them..." He trailed off, motioning to the three shrivelled figures in the background. "They look like corpses waitin' fer meat hooks. Especially Glen. Someone should hook him up to an intravenous and pump him full of food dye. Don't hush me!"
Sam did anyway, waving him off as she turned the volume up. Another Scottish demon loomed into frame. Jamie proceeded to give a genuine performance.
"Cunt's got the emotional range of a teaspoon..." Tucker muttered.
"Don't be unkind. He's trying – which is more than I can say for you. Aren't you even a little bit sorry that he's dead?"
"Honestly?" Tucker paused and gave it a second of truly deep thought. "No. He was a fucking boring fuck who's just left a huge wagon of utter shit in my life. So no. No I don't."
Sam flicked the TV off and turned on her boss.
"Oh come on – the fuck you do that for? I was watchin' an Oscar worthy performance - though I must say the standard's really slipped since the studios started purchasing their accolades in bonds. Now where are you going?" Tucker watched helplessly as his P.A. closed and locked the door. She returned to the centre of his office where she began to pace – a habit picked up from him. He was certain that there were grooves worn into the floorboards by now leading straight to fucking hell.
"They killed him, Malcolm." Sam's voice shook a little. "You can flit around and pretend with the others that it doesn't bother you like some kind of mad butterfly but I know that you know what this means. Whatever it is that we're getting close to – whoever it is – that we're stepping on they've got fangs. This isn't about unflattering headlines of you and your P.A. any more-"
"I don't-"
"Quiet!."
"Okay..." Malcolm gripped one of the files to his chest as a form of armour against the bloody terrifying look Sam was dishing out. Jamie was fucking right about her. She was forged in hell right along with the rest of them. When it came to smacking out a good talking to, she was right up there with his mother.
"If we keep digging this pit of skeletons up we have to be more careful. What if they come after you? I know you think everyone's shitting themselves in your presence but real killers – actual criminals living their lives one bag of crack to the next – they're not intimidated by you. Words can't save you from a blade."
There was an extended silence between them in which Malcolm prodded his cracked phone, shrugged silently and tossed the file he'd been clutching back to the floor. "We don' even know for sure that Miller was killed because of this. Loads of people want to murder politicians. It might have nothing ter do with us."
"What is it you're always saying about Dan Miller?"
"He's a fucking boring fuck." Malcolm watched Sam's face drop and he knew very well that she didn't have to elaborate on that point. 'Boring' wasn't usually a quality that inspired murderous rampage. "I mean there are some people that you want to mount their heads on spikes and others that you just can't be fucking bothered with."
"Then why," Sam joined him on the floor amid the deluge of files, "are you digging through your secrets archives on him? What are you looking for – what do you think you know? If you don't tell me then I can't help you."
Sometimes, very rarely, things wafted to the edge of Malcolm's eyes that looked oddly like emotions. "I'd tell yer if I new." Malcolm admitted. "There's something familiar about Miller – like one of those scratch n' sniff stamps. I've got a hint of shit and it won't rub off."
"Well we better find it fast before you pull a card out of the Community Chest that reads, 'Go Directly to Jail'.
Terry drove everyone back to DoSAC which was a particularly frightening experience for Ollie who had to share the back seat with Jamie. He was tied to his phone, swiping his finger over the screen manically as he murdered digital representations of his fury. Every now and then he let out little groans of pleasure.
"So what do we do now?" Ollie asked, clearing his throat.
"Go back to work, I imagine – unless you've got a cruise lined up." Glen replied, from the front. He had one hand on the dashboard, bolstering him with an extra layer of protection as the tyres slid over the icy road.
"Yeah. No. All right." Ollie hissed. "I mean – don't we have to start telling people that their minister is, oh – I don't know – a frozen body? What's the protocol for that?"
"There's a whole file on this sort of thing," Glen assured the younger man. "Believe it or not, people do die while in service to the public."
"Would you like me to send a memo out?"
"What – Terry… No. That'll come off as insensitive." Ollie replied.
Terry shrugged. "Just trying to be efficient."
"Yeah..." The Scottish demon in the back piped up. "Because DoSAC is the fucking beacon of efficiency."
"What he said." Ollie pointed at Jamie. "We could draft a letter. Give an announcement to the press. Bloody hell, that'll have to be you, Glen. You're the only one that can muster a face glum enough to give a ten second eulogy."
"Not me. I have the weekend off. Going to plaster a wall."
"You're not going home, Glen. The world is ending. You've got to be here, in the shit of it like the rest of us victims."
"Well, I'm going home." Terry insisted. "I'll deal with Miller's death through the appropriate channels on Monday between 9 and 6."
"I've always wondered what it's like to be you, Terry. How does it feel to have absolutely no empathy?"
"Very calming."