Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“The apron,” she said. “Now that is really strange.”

“That’s right. Like you said, why bother with it at all? I can’t believe our hypothetical tekmerc used it simply to incriminate the students. First off, we actually can’t implicate one of them with it. If they were going to plant evidence why not the knife, some bloodstains?”

“Too obvious.”

“Maybe. But the apron isn’t obvious enough. And why spend precious tune starting a fire? I know covert penetration operations, Christ I’ve been on enough in my time, the cardinal rule is get out once you’ve finished, don’t loiter.”

“Whoever it was, they must have been there a while, though. First they had to wait until Kitchener was alone, then the Bendix was burnt, as well as the neurohormone bioware. It all adds up to a lot of time spent in the Abbey.”

“Which gives them an even stronger reason to leave straight after the murder,” he countered. “Every extra minute in the Abbey is one more minute when they could be discovered. And why use syntho to kill the bioware in the first place?”

“Because it’s there, saves carrying a poison in with them.”

“Exactly, but how did they know that? It must have been someone totally familiar with the lab set-up, and even then they couldn’t have known for sure that there was any syntho available that particular night. Suppose Kitchener and good old Rosette had been infusing heavily? A tekmerc would have brought a poison, or more likely used a maser. Whatever the method, it would never have been left to chance.”

“There are all sorts of other chemicals in the lab, as well as the acids, and the heaters,” she said. “There was bound to be something which could kill the bioware. Pure chance they used the syntho.”

“Yeah. Could be.” But the junked up thought fragments refused to quieten down, he kept seeing flashes of Launde Park, the Abbey, those bloody lakes, Denzil’s data-rich tour, the students’ broken shocked faces. None of them connected in any way.

He took a gulp of the lager; it was cold enough to numb the back of his throat. “But that still doesn’t explain the time they were in the Abbey before the murder,” he said.

Eleanor gave a tiny groan.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “We can drop it for the night.”

“And put up with moody silences while you’re thinking about it. No thanks. But next time Julia can definitely go find someone else. This is Mandel Investigations’ last case, Gregory.”

He flashed her a smile, squeezing her tighter. “No messing.”

“So what about the time?” She sipped at her own lager.

“Why wait until Rosette and Isabel left Kitchener? A tekmerc wouldn’t care about snuffing them as well, in fact it would even be beneficial from the mission’s point of view. Less people to spot him leaving, raise the alarm.”

“But they were a complication, Greg. Killing three people in one room would be risky. Certainly one of them would manage to shout.”

“Maybe. But it would mean he had to wait somewhere inside the Abbey for hours. No tekmerc would do that, the exposure risk is too great. And in any case, it implies he knew Rosette would leave Kitchener alone for a while.”

“Everyone knew she was an insomniac.”

“Her friends, yes. But how would anyone else know?”

“Good question.” She leant forward and rescued her cybofax from the coffee table. “There’s a couple of other points. Amanda Paterson and I spent the afternoon chasing up English Telecom.” She started reading the data on the cybofax screen. “The only datalinks from the Abbey on Thursday were the three we’ve accounted for: Nicholas and CNES, Rosette and Oxford University, and Kitchener himself, he was plugged into Caltech, over in America. On top of that there were twenty-one phone calls made from cybofaxes; two of them were Mrs Mayberry’s, the housekeeper, one of her helpers made another, then Rosette made nine, Cecil made a couple, so did Liz, Nicholas and Isabel both made one each, the other three were all Kitchener’s.

Amanda and another detective are calling the numbers and confirming the calls were vocal. We thought someone could have plugged a cybofax into one of the Abbey’s terminals, the bit rate would be substantially lower, but you could still use it to squirt a virus into the Bendix.”

“Yeah, assuming it was done on Thursday. There’s nothing to prevent you from loading the virus a month ago, and putting it on a time-delay activation.”

She gave him a disappointed look. “We had to start somewhere.”

“Yeah, sure. Sorry. But nobody’s going to remember a phone call from a month or half a year ago.”

“I know, but what else can we do?”

“Nothing, it was only ever a very long shot, closing off options. I can’t see anyone wanting to wipe the Bendix until after Kitchener was dead, not if the object was to destroy his work. To wipe it when he was alive would be counterproductive, he would be able to recreate his equations or whatever, and you’d alert him to the security problem. And if it was loaded a month ago, how did they know the timing, or when the students would stop accessing it. No, I’m sure it must have been done from within the Abbey after he was killed, that’s the only scenario that makes sense.”

“You’re probably right. Anyway, while Amanda was running down the phone calls, I checked with RAF Cottesmore about the weather conditions on Thursday. There were winds up to a hundred kilometres an hour locally that night, some gusts reached a hundred and twenty. Here is their squirt.”

“Bugger.” He put down the lager and looked at the meteorological data which the cybofax was displaying. The purple and blue cloudforms of the weather radar image were super-imposed over a map of Rutland; pressure and wind velocity/direction captions flashed across it.

“Can you fly a microlight in that?” Eleanor asked.

“Not a chance. Even high level would be risky; low level with the microbursts you’d get in the Chater valley, impossible.”

She rubbed his arm. “Couldn’t they just bike in and out?”

“It’s four kilometres to Launde from the A47 by the straightest possible route, eight there and back. The trip there would be in the middle of a hurricane, with a diversion round Loddington to be sure they weren’t sighted, and carrying enough gear to melt through the security system. You wouldn’t catch me trying to do it.”

“But it could be done?” she persisted.

“Theoretically, yeah, an inertial guide would place you within a couple of centimetres. But that terrain, well, you saw it.”

“Yes.” She gave him back the glass of lager, and curled her legs up, resting her head on his shoulder.

He felt the kiss on the bottom of his jaw, then she was rubbing her cheek against his. Up and down, slowly. “You’re all tensed up,” she murmured in his ear. “You won’t solve anything like that.”

For a moment he thought of pulling away. But only for a moment. Besides, she was right, he wouldn’t settle it tonight.

The bedroom overlooked the reservoir’s southern prong, a long dark stretch of water with its wavelets and gently writhing curlicues of mist. Walls and furniture were silky white; vases, picture frames, curtains, sheets, and the bedposts were all coloured in shades of blue; the oaken floorboards smoothed down and waxed until they resembled a ballroom floor.

None of that really mattered, not the surroundings, just the bed, with Eleanor. Clad in black silk and lace, naked, provocative, sensual, demanding, submissive, thick red hair foaming down over her shoulders. She possessed a myriad sexual traits, combinations ever-changing, making each time different, unique.

The only light came from the bonfire on the opposite shore, a distant orange glimmer, barely enough to show him her outline. He undid the bows and buttons of her nightdress, licking at the flesh which was exposed tasting the salt tang of damp skin, the heat of arousal.