Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“When was this?”

“November the third.”

“Did you?”

“No! She thought… She thought it was funny.”

“Yeah; I can imagine, I’ve been introduced to Rosette. So you knew syntho was available at the Abbey?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know where the vat was?”

“In the chemistry lab.”

“You were the first person to arrive at the bedroom after Rosette screamed, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see anybody else in the Abbey, apart from the other students?”

“No. Well…” Nicholas tugged at the front of his sweatshirt. It seemed to be constricting around him; his skin was very warm. Both detectives were studying him keenly. This was all going to sound so incredibly stupid, they really would think he was backward now. “There was a girl,” he said reluctantly.

Greg’s eyes had closed, his face crinkled with the effort of concentration. “Go on.”

“It was earlier. When I saw Isabel and Rosette. She was a ghost.”

Nevin let out an exasperated groan, leaning back in his chair. “For Christ’s sake!”

Greg held up a hand, clicking his fingers irritably to silence him. “You said: girl. How old?”

“About my age. She was tall, very pretty, red hair.”

“How do you know she was a ghost?”

“Because I saw her outside first. Then she was in the corndor behind Isabel and Rosette.”

“You mean she was out in the park?”

“No. Right outside my window. I thought it was a reflection in the glass at first.”

“Your room is on the second floor, isn’t it?”

“Yes. That’s why she couldn’t be real. I think I imagined her. I was very tired.”

“Have you ever seen the combat leathers which army squaddies wear?” Greg asked. “They are a bit like biker suits, only not so restrictive, man-black, broad equipment belts, and there’s normally a skull helmet as well.”

“Yes, I think I know what you mean.”

“Was this girl wearing anything like that?”

“Oh, no. She had a jacket on, that was quite dark, but it was just an ordinary one; I think she was wearing a long skirt, too.”

Greg opened his eyes, and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. “Interesting,” he said guardedly.

Nicholas studiously avoided eye contact with the two detectives.

“Hardly relevant, Mandel,” Langley said.

Greg ignored him. “Have you ever seen her before?” he asked Nicholas.

“No.”

“What about other ghosts, or visions?”

He hung his head. “No.”

“What time did you get up that morning, Nicholas?”

“Half-past seven.”

“OK. It probably was just fatigue.” He sounded satisfied. “A lot of squaddies used to suffer from it in Turkey; amazing what they thought they saw after two or three days without sleep. There; told you I talked too much about my old campaigns.”

Nicholas smiled tentatively, it didn’t seem as though he was mocking.

Greg yawned and squinted at his cybofax. When was the last time you washed?”

“Lunchtime, just after the lawyers finished briefing us about you conducting our interviews.”

Nevin’s face split into a huge grin.

“No, Nicholas.” Greg was labouring against a similar grin. “I meant last Thursday. When was the last time you washed prior to the murder?”

Blood heated his cheeks and ears. “Just after seven o’clock. Before I went down to supper.”

Nevin frowned and pulled out his cybofax. He muttered an order into it, and scanned the screen.

Greg had turned to watch him.

“Must have been later than that,” he said in a low tone.

Langley took the cybofax and looked at the data on display.

Greg joined them, the three of them put their heads together, talking quietly.

Nicholas squirmed unhappily. He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong this time. At least Greg hadn’t accused him of lying.

“What sort of wash?” Nevin asked.

“A shower. We’ve all got showers.”

He pointed at the cybofax screen. “There, see? The back of his hands are as clean as his legs.”

“Yeah, but the particle accumulation on both is quite well established,” Greg said.

“That doesn’t mean…”

Nicholas stopped listening. He remembered the body scan they gave him when he arrived at the station. It was in a white composite cubicle, similar to a shower. A sensor, like a brown bulb the size of his fist, had telescoped down from the ceiling on the end of a waldo arm, and slowly spiralled round his naked body. He had imagined it sniffing like a dog. Then there had been the blood tests, the urine sample; his clothes taken away for examination, finger-and palm-prints recorded.

“Did you wash later on?” Greg asked. “After supper?”

“Yes. My hands, a few times. I went to the toilet; and we were eating peanuts in Uri’s room, they leave your hands sticky.”

“The time is wrong,” Nevin insisted.

“It’s not tremendously reliable,” Langley said grudgingly. “We can’t contest anything with those results.”

“What is it?” Nicholas asked, pleased that he had found the courage from somewhere.

“The amount of dirt you were carrying on Friday morning is rather low, that’s all,” Greg said. He closed his eyes. “Tell me again, what time did you have a shower?”

“After seven, about quarter-past. We have to be down for supper at half-past, you see.”

“And you didn’t have another shower later?”

“No.”

“He’s telling the truth.”

“Is there a point of contention?” Lisa Collier asked. Greg and Langley both looked at Jon Nevin. The detective gave the cybofax screen one last scan, then snapped the unit shut. “No.”

Maybe it was the rain, a relentless heavy downpour, which had cleared the reporters from the pavement outside the police station, or maybe the prospect of incurring Julia’s wrath had put the fear of God into them.

Whatever the reason, when Greg drove out of the station gates late on Thesday afternoon, there was only a handful of camera operators in plastic cagoules left to watch him go.

“Thank heavens for that,” Eleanor muttered beside him. “I thought they’d put down roots.”

He turned up Church Street, and flicked on the headlights. The sun hadn’t quite set, but the solid clouds had smothered Oakham in a grey penumbra. Raindrops emitted a wan yellow twinkle as they slashed through the beams.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “You had a word with Julia, then?”

“Absolutely. You know, it’s still hard to associate the girl we know with this demon-machinator billionairess all the channels carp on about. I mean, the Prime Minister couldn’t call off reporters like this. They’d all race up to the top of the nearest hill and start screaming about oppression and press freedom.”

“No messing. But then Marchant doesn’t own the launch facilities which boost the broadcast satellite platforms into geosync orbit.”

“There is that.”

Greg glanced over at Cutts Close; lights were shining in all the caravans, dark figures shuffled across the grass. They hadn’t actually retreated then, just regrouped ready for tomorrow.

He nudged the EMC Ranger up to thirty-five kilometres an hour. The rain had driven most of the traffic off the roads, leaving a few cyclists pedalling home, faces screwed up against the spray. His neurohormone hangover was ebbing, it wasn’t as if he had to strain for the interviews. The Launde students had been co-operative, a welcome change from the hideously antagonistic mullahs in Turkey.

“What did Julia say about analysing the themed neurohormones?” he asked.

“No problem, we should have the answer some time tomorrow. The courier came and picked the ampoules up while you were doing the interviews.” Eleanor gazed blankly at the deserted stalls in the market square. It was the empty expression she used whenever she was more irritated than she wanted to admit. “I had to threaten to call the Home Office for clearance before he authorized their release.”