‘I never thought you needed much improvement,’ he replied, immediately appalled that he’d made such a bold remark out loud.

Macks laughed, then slammed the door.

In the sealed quiet of the transporter, Drusher watched for a while as she waded in with her riot baton, and brought order to the scene. Then he turned his attention back to the data-slate.

Time passed.

The driver’s door opened, and the transporter rocked on its springs as she clambered back in.

‘I think we’re looking for a carnodon,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’ she said, gunning the engine and throwing the vehicle forwards in rapid acceleration.

‘Yes. I mean, working from the details here. I could be wrong if the specimens were changed after this list was made up, but it’s a simple process of elimination.’

‘Is it?’ she asked, throwing them around a street corner so fast the tyres squealed.

‘There were only four predators listed in the bombed-out pens. Discount the Mirepoix treecreeper because it’s an injector, not a biter.’

‘A what?’

‘It injects its prey with a long proboscis, and dissolves the internal organs, sucking them out.’

‘Enough.’

‘I mean, it doesn’t have a mouth.’

‘All right, all right.’

‘So, no bite wounds.’

‘Right.’

‘Right, so the saurapt from Brontotaph is off the list as well.’

Macks changed down, and raced them along another empty boulevard. ‘Because?’

‘Because it’s the size of a hab block. Falken wouldn’t have had to be drunk to spot it already.’

She grinned.

‘And the pouncer here, from Lamsarotte, we can cross that off too. It’s a felid, but far too slight to cause the wounds you showed me. Besides, I doubt it would have lasted long in this climate outside a heated pen.’

‘So we’re left with the, what did you call it?’ she asked.

‘Carnodon. From Gudrun. Throne, there shouldn’t have been one in captivity here. They’re virtually extinct, and listed on the Administratum’s prohibition order. It’s a felid too, but big, and from temperate habitats.’

‘How big?’

‘Five or six metres, maybe eight hundred kilos. Quite capable of biting off a man’s face.’

‘So, magos biologis, how do we catch a carnodon?’ she asked, heaving on the wheel.

Drusher looked up.

‘We’re… we’re going rather fast, Macks,’ he said. ‘Another call?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Another breach of curfew?’ he asked.

Macks shook her head. ‘Question stands, Valentin. How do we catch a carnodon?’

The habs were clustered together at the northern extremity of the town, gathered in tight, conspiratorial knots. Acres of wasteland surrounded each stack, littered with the flotsam of war and poverty. Much of the intense fighting during the civil war had taken place in this shell-damaged suburb.