The Woman Who Died a Lot (Thursday Next 7)

“Umbilical went here,” he said. He wiped his finger on the flap, then smelled it. “Activated two hours ago, give/take. Not seen this sort of Synthetic before. Cheap body.”

“But excellent brain,” added Landen.

“Indeed,” agreed Stig. “She sent here find out something, do something, see something—perhaps report back, then die.”

“The BookWorld,” I said. “Goliath has always wanted to get in there. I could easily have read my way in with this body. Do you think that’s what they were up to?”

No one answered because no one knew.

Stig peered into the skull cavity and poked a chubby finger into the the remains of the brain stem. “Dismantle it when back at lab. Shame you shot it through head, Landen. We could have learned more.”

“Note to self,” said Landen sarcastically. “Don’t shoot wife through head.”

Landen and I walked out of the bookshop after offering our apologies for the mess, and I told them to send a bill for any damaged books to Braxton Hicks.

“Are you okay?” asked Landen as we hobbled back toward the car.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just miss running.”

“You will again,” he said, but I knew, despite the conviction with which he said it, that it was going to take a while.

“Sure,” I said, “and your leg is going to grow back.”

He said nothing but squeezed my hand.

“We’ve got to be home at three,” I said. “Finisterre is taking me up to the Sisterhood to view the contents of their scriptorium.”

Then something occurred to me.

“Wait a moment,” I said. “That Synthetic wouldn’t have been activated without help, and she was barely two hours old.”

“What are we looking for?” asked Landen. “A cobwebby basement with ancient electrical equipment and a mad scientist? Or just a really large jar?”

“She’d certainly have been sealed in something. Hang on.”

I delved through my pockets—I was wearing her clothes, after all—and found a key card from the Finis Hotel.

15.

Tuesday: The Finis

The Finis Hotel remains not the most luxurious or stylish of Swindon’s many hotels, but it is certainly the most notorious, with the ballroom and guest rooms host to more attempted coups, murders, formations of political splinter groups and subject to police raids than any other. It had become so notorious, in fact, that people came to holiday here simply to witness what management refers to as “the Finis’s diverse clientele and their antics.”

Swindon Tourist Board leaflet

The receptionist greeted me cheerily as we walked into the lobby.

“Welcome back,” she said brightly. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“In a manner of speaking. How long am I booked in?”

“Let’s see,” she said, looking at the screen set into the desk. “Two nights.”

“Did I arrive with anyone?”

Her eyes flicked to Landen. We were a recognizable couple in the city, and the Finis prided itself on its discretion.

“I’m a very understanding husband,” said Landen.