Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“Who woke who?”

“Dunno. It just happened, you know.”

“Was your flatscreen still showing the newscasts?”

“Er, yeah, I think so. Couldn’t swear to it in court. Wasn’t paying much attention, see?”

“Were you aware that Rosette was having an affair with Kitchener?”

Uri gave a mental flinch at Rosette’s name. He wasn’t afraid of her, Greg decided, more like demoralized.

“Yes,” Uri said. “It was bound to happen, those two.”

“Oh?”

“Two of a kind. Intellectually, you know. Didn’t give a stuff for convention.”

“And did you know about Isabel?”

Uri scratched his stubble. “The old nocturnal visiting? Yes. Shame that. I blame Rosette more than Kitchener.”

“Why is that?”

“She’d enjoy seducing Isabel. It would be a challenge to her.”

“You liked Kitchener, didn’t you?”

“He was bloody amazing. I don’t just mean his work. When I came to Launde I was almost as bad as Nick, all meek and tongue-tied. It’s trite, but he really was like a father to me. He brings people out of themselves. God, the stories he told us! That reputation of his was one hundred per cent earned. He was wicked, disgraceful, terrible. And absolutely beautiflil. Totally unique. The only thing I disagreed about was the syntho, but it didn’t seem to affect his serious thinking. And he’s still pushing at frontiers even now – “ The lively smile on Uri’s face died a tormented death. “Was pushing…” he whispered.

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about the Abbey that night?”

“Like what?”

“A visitor.”

“No-God, I would have told the police if I had!”

“Yeah. There was no trace of syntho in your blood when the police took a sample.”

“Well, there wouldn’t be,” Uri said cautiously.

“Have you ever taken it at Launde?”

Edwin Lancaster’s gold biro halted, its tip poised a couple of millimetres in the air. “You are asking my client to incriminate himself,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that wasn’t part of the basis for this interview.”

“We are not interested in bringing charges against anybody concerning past narcotic infusion,” Langley promised. “Providing it is external to this case.”

“As a police officer, you have a duty to investigate illegal narcotics abuse.”

“We know the source of syntho at Launde. Kitchener’s vat is in police custody, it cannot be used to supply anyone in future. And we have no desire to prosecute past victims.”

“Your client has infused syntho at some time,” Greg said.

“Hey!” Uri protested.

“I simply wish to know how familiar you are with the narcotics availability at Launde, that’s all,” Greg said. “It’s going to help me a lot.”

“OK. All right,” Uri held up his hands in placation. “No big deal. Yes, I tried it. Once, OK? One time. Like I told you, it’s not my scene. I don’t like that kind of loss of control, not in myself or other people. Infusing it just confirmed my view. It’s stupid, self-destructive.”

“You know where it was grown?”

“Yes. The vat in the lab. Everybody knew that.”

“Thank you. Did you use the Bendix that night?”

“No.”

“Do you know its management program codes?”

“No, not offhand, but they’re all stored in the operations file. We all have access to that. Kitchener trusted us not to do anything stupid; we’re all ‘ware literate.”

“What about the datanet; did you use it on Thursday, plug into a ‘ware system outside the Abbey?”

“No.”

Liz Foxton, Greg decided, was the kind of girl who was always open to other people’s problems. To say that she was motherly would be unfair, she had a steely reserve, a no-nonsense practicality, but in addition there was a definite aura of reassurance about her. Even he felt less disquieted about this interview.

“I’ve been told you don’t get on well with Rosette Harding-Clarke; is that true?” he asked.

“I don’t dislike her,” Liz said defensively. “There is no percentage in grudges, not when you have to spend a whole year cooped up in the same house together. I understand her perfectly; I’m just unhappy with her, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“She made a pass at Uri. More than one, actually. He turned her down each time.”

“I see. What time did you get to sleep last Thursday night?”

“About two o’clock. I was watching the Globecast news channel. I was so happy about Scotland. Now this.”

“I understand you were, um, active at three o’clock Friday morning. Did you hear or see anything unusual at that time?”

“No. There was just us.”

“Was the flatscreen showing the newscasts at that time?”

“Yes. I’d fallen asleep watching it.”

“What about after three o’clock, did it stay on?”

“Yes. I watched it for a while. I don’t know how long for, I dozed off again.”

“And you were woken by Rosette’s screams?”

“Yes,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Then you went straight to Kitchener’s bedroom?”

“Yes.”

Was Uri in the bedroom when you woke up?”

“Yes! He was out of the door before me, but only by a few seconds.”

“Do you remember if you arrived at Kitchenen’s bedroom before on after Isabel Spalvas?”

“Before, I think. She was standing behind me. She caught me. My legs went, you see.” Her eyes filled with. liquid. She blinked furiously, dabbing at them with a handkerchief.

“I understand,” said Greg. “Just a couple more questions.” He gave Lancaster an admonitory look. “Did you ever take syntho at the Abbey?”

She sniffed. “Yes, a few times. Three, I think. That was last year, about a month after I arrived. Just to try it. Edward was there to make sure I’d be all right. But that was the last time, Uri has a real bug about it.”

“And you argued about it?”

“Yes. So silly.” She gave him a fast plaintive grimace. “You remember the old song? The best part of breaking up, is making up. That’s us.”

“Right So you must have known that syntho was being cooked up at the Abbey, that there was a vat in the lab?”

“Yes.”

Were you using the Bendix on Thursday?”

“No, I should have been, but Scotland seemed so much more important. I was watching the newscasts for most of the day.”

“So you didn’t use the datanet either, then?”

“No.”

“Did you ever sleep with Edward Kitchener?”

He perceived the answer in her mind, in amidst all the turmoil of guilt, adoration, remorse, and grief. She took a long time to speak. The answer in her earlier statements to the police had been a resolute no.

“I did once,” she said. “When I first went to Launde. I was lonely. He was kind, sympathetic.”

“Was that one of the times when you infused syntho?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Does Uri know?”

“No.” Her head was bowed. “You won’t tell him, will you?”

“These interviews are strictly confidential,” Greg said. “There’s no need for him to know.”

She rose slowly from her chair, gratefully accepting the hand Lancaster offered. “Do you know who it was?” she asked.

“Not yet, no.”

Isabel Spalvas looked as tired as Greg felt. She was wearing jeans and a baggy mauve sweatshirt, her light fuzzy hair tied back in a pony-tail. Her face had wonderfully dainty features. She would have been very attractive under ordinary circumstances, he guessed, but today her skin was sallow, almost grey, there were red rings round her eyes from crying, slim lips were turned down mournfully. She moved listlessly when she came in, sitting down, showing no real interest in the proceedings. Matthew Slater sat behind her, looking appropriately concerned.