Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Jane Killick
Tags: science fiction telepathy, young adult scifi adventure
They want me to take it.”
Jones was only half listening. “Michael thinks Tyler might have been planning to get on the number 10 bus.”
Patterson looked across at Michael with a suspicious eye. Michael felt a moment of annoyance from him before he tightened his filters. “Was he going to blow it up?”
“No,” said Michael. “He wanted to travel on the bus, but I couldn’t see where.”
“Look into it will you, Tony?” said Jones.
“Do you know where the number 10 goes?” said Patterson. “Through the whole centre of London!”
“You may find this difficult to believe,” said Jones, “but even detective inspectors have occasion to use the bus sometimes. Of course I know where the number 10 goes.”
“I mean, it’s a large area to look at if we’re considering a possible target and—” Patterson looked down at Michael, which he was able to do because he was a foot taller “—we don’t know if the information’s credible.”
“It’s a lead, Tony,” said Jones. “Follow it where it takes you, even if it ends up being nowhere.”
Jones had his doubts about using perceivers in the police force, Michael had gleaned it from him the first time they had met. But the decision was out of his hands and he was prepared to give it a go. If it was possible to see into the minds of criminals and reveal the truth that they otherwise kept to themselves, Jones knew it could be a valuable resource.
“I’ll do it when I get back from this other job,” said Patterson.
Jones sighed. “Fine. You can take Michael with you.”
“But sir …”
“It’ll give you two time to bond.”
~
PATTERSON’S ‘JOB’ was out in Kensington, a posh part of London known by tourists for being where all the museums are. It was the sort of place where you had to have a lot of cash if you were going to live in it, with even the most modest of houses having price tags that ran into the millions. Patterson drove Michael to one such ‘modest’ residential street where a row of Victorian townhouses nestled next to each other in a terrace, with each one painted in a different colour to distinguish it from its neighbour. Patterson parked his grubby Vauxhall between a Mercedes and a Jaguar in the road outside and ascended half a dozen steps to a large black door set within the walls of the pastel blue painted house.
He didn’t say a word to Michael and Michael kept his promise not to perceive him on the assumption that everything would become clear eventually. They spent the car journey saying nothing and with BBC Radio Five Live blasting loudly out of the car stereo. It hadn’t given Michael any insight into the case Patterson was working on, but he now had a thorough understanding of Tottenham Hotspur’s chances in the FA Cup.
Patterson did up his tie and smoothed down his crumpled suit before ringing the bell. A few moments later, the door was opened by a woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Yes?” Her accent was not English, probably eastern European.
Patterson reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his identification, which he flashed at the woman. “I’m Sergeant Anthony Patterson and this is—” He automatically opened out his hand to indicate Michael, but he had no words prepared. He cleared his throat. “This is my associate.”
“Yes, Mr Rublev is expecting you.” Definitely eastern European. Or possibly Russian.
She opened the door fully and allowed them inside. This was where the relative plainness of the Victorian exterior made way for an opulent interior that oozed modern money. Dominating the entrance hall was a cloud of crystal droplets from a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which scattered tiny rainbows of light in every direction. A cabinet made of rich, dark polished wood stood at the side and seemed only there to display a delicate vase of blue and white porcelain, an abstract glass sculpture with sticky out angles and a figurine of a slim lady in a sleek 1920s dress.
The nurse
Jones was only half listening. “Michael thinks Tyler might have been planning to get on the number 10 bus.”
Patterson looked across at Michael with a suspicious eye. Michael felt a moment of annoyance from him before he tightened his filters. “Was he going to blow it up?”
“No,” said Michael. “He wanted to travel on the bus, but I couldn’t see where.”
“Look into it will you, Tony?” said Jones.
“Do you know where the number 10 goes?” said Patterson. “Through the whole centre of London!”
“You may find this difficult to believe,” said Jones, “but even detective inspectors have occasion to use the bus sometimes. Of course I know where the number 10 goes.”
“I mean, it’s a large area to look at if we’re considering a possible target and—” Patterson looked down at Michael, which he was able to do because he was a foot taller “—we don’t know if the information’s credible.”
“It’s a lead, Tony,” said Jones. “Follow it where it takes you, even if it ends up being nowhere.”
Jones had his doubts about using perceivers in the police force, Michael had gleaned it from him the first time they had met. But the decision was out of his hands and he was prepared to give it a go. If it was possible to see into the minds of criminals and reveal the truth that they otherwise kept to themselves, Jones knew it could be a valuable resource.
“I’ll do it when I get back from this other job,” said Patterson.
Jones sighed. “Fine. You can take Michael with you.”
“But sir …”
“It’ll give you two time to bond.”
~
PATTERSON’S ‘JOB’ was out in Kensington, a posh part of London known by tourists for being where all the museums are. It was the sort of place where you had to have a lot of cash if you were going to live in it, with even the most modest of houses having price tags that ran into the millions. Patterson drove Michael to one such ‘modest’ residential street where a row of Victorian townhouses nestled next to each other in a terrace, with each one painted in a different colour to distinguish it from its neighbour. Patterson parked his grubby Vauxhall between a Mercedes and a Jaguar in the road outside and ascended half a dozen steps to a large black door set within the walls of the pastel blue painted house.
He didn’t say a word to Michael and Michael kept his promise not to perceive him on the assumption that everything would become clear eventually. They spent the car journey saying nothing and with BBC Radio Five Live blasting loudly out of the car stereo. It hadn’t given Michael any insight into the case Patterson was working on, but he now had a thorough understanding of Tottenham Hotspur’s chances in the FA Cup.
Patterson did up his tie and smoothed down his crumpled suit before ringing the bell. A few moments later, the door was opened by a woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Yes?” Her accent was not English, probably eastern European.
Patterson reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his identification, which he flashed at the woman. “I’m Sergeant Anthony Patterson and this is—” He automatically opened out his hand to indicate Michael, but he had no words prepared. He cleared his throat. “This is my associate.”
“Yes, Mr Rublev is expecting you.” Definitely eastern European. Or possibly Russian.
She opened the door fully and allowed them inside. This was where the relative plainness of the Victorian exterior made way for an opulent interior that oozed modern money. Dominating the entrance hall was a cloud of crystal droplets from a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, which scattered tiny rainbows of light in every direction. A cabinet made of rich, dark polished wood stood at the side and seemed only there to display a delicate vase of blue and white porcelain, an abstract glass sculpture with sticky out angles and a figurine of a slim lady in a sleek 1920s dress.
The nurse
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