Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

“I know. She could make another fortune if she charged the newscast programmes an appearance fee.”

SHE’S PRETTY PRETTY PRETTY, JUST LIKE YOU. LUCKY LUCKY LUCKY ME. TWO PRETTIEST GIRLS IN THE COUNTRY ARE MY FRIENDS.

She took another sip, surprised to find herself relaxing.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” she asked slyly.

I KNOW WHY. HE WANTS SOMETHING, SO HE SENT YOU. HE KNOWS I’M A SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER FOR A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. I AM TOO.

“We had to split up, actually. There’s a lot of ground to cover today.”

WHAT’S THE CASE?

“The Kitchener murder.” She started giving him a review of the data they’d amassed. As far as she could tell he was listening attentively, certainly the vaguely eerie lettering faded from the screens, a sure sign of contemplation. The session wasn’t turning out as emotionally arduous as she had been expecting.

The trick was to block out the rest of his life, the daily horror of eating, crapping, peeing, the pain spasms which convulsed him every few hours. Pretend everything stopped when she wasn’t there, that all he did was meet visitors who brought him gossip and problems he could gain a measure of satisfaction from solving. It was weak of her to think like that, craven, but it was the only way she could get through. The suffering he went through was a tragedy on an epic scale.

IF IT WASN’T THE STUDENTS, AND IT WASN’T A TEKMERC SNUFF DEAL, THEN WHO WHO WHO DUNNNNNIT?

“Good question. I didn’t say a tekmerc definitely wasn’t involved; but they certainly didn’t drive in, and they didn’t fly in either. Of course, we’re not ruling out the possibility that someone yomped in, but Greg says he doesn’t think it’s likely.”

IF HE SAYS IT DIDN’T HAPPEN, IT DIDN’T DIDN’T DIDN’T.

“He says he’s not sure.”

Royan’s rucked smile appeared again. WHAT DO YOU THINK???

“I think it would have been absolutely impossible for anyone to walk in and out of the Chater valley that evening. It was bad enough driving our EMC Ranger in yesterday. Launde Abbey is very isolated.”

I BELIEVE YOU. WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?

She put down the empty coffee-cup and held up her cybofax. “I’ve brought the schematics for the Abbey’s security system. I need to know if it is possible for someone to burn through, enter the Abbey, and then get out again afterwards without raising the alarm. The police forensic team say it was completely undisturbed.”

One of the ‘ware modules on the top of the bench let out a small bleep. When she turned, blue and green LEDs were winking on the front of the scuffed grey plastic casing.

SQUIRT THE BYTES OVER. NO NO NO PROBLEM FOR ME

She pointed the cybofax at the module and keyed a squirt.

GOT IT I’LL START LOOKING FOR A WAY THROUGH. SHOULD HAVE AN ANSWER BY THIS AFTERNOON.

“Fine.” Eleanor slipped the cybofax into her back pocket. “Can you also find out if any hotrod was contracted to supply this hypothetical burn virus?”

I’LL ASK. MIGHT NOT GET A HUNDRED %%%%%% ACCURATE ANSWER. IF IT WAS DONE, THE WRITER WON’T BE ADVERTISING.

“Have you heard of anyone asking for a virus like this?”

NO NO NO. CROSS HEART

“OK, final point; Greg thinks it would be useful to know what sort of rumours are floating about. Ask around the circuit, find out what people think Kitchener was working on for Julia, whether they even knew he was working for Julia; and also, did Kitchener owe money to anyone?”

HE WAS A MILLIONAIRE MULTI MULTI MULTI.

“He was a regular syntho user, and so were some of the students. He had his own vat at Launde, but the basic compounds still cost money. So it probably wouldn’t be banks we’re talking about.”

GOTCHA. KITCHENER USED SYNTHO?

“Yes.”

MAN LIKE THAT WOW WOW WOW.

She gave him a sad smile. “Yes, a man like that. Funny old world, isn’t it. You wouldn’t think he’d need it, a brain like his.”

MAYBE BECAUSE HE HAD A BRAIN LIKE THAT. NOBODY ON THIS PLANET WAS HIS EQUAL. MAYBE HE WAS LONELY LONELY LONELY.

“Oh, no, not Kitchener, not lonely. One of the girl students is having his child.”

There was no answer for a moment, the last LONELY remained splashed across the three right-hand screens. Then the word evaporated like morning dew. She heard the lens on the camera whirring softly, zooming in on her face.

HE WAS OLD.

“Sixty-seven, I think”

ALL THAT TIME. SO MANY YEARS.

“He accomplished an awful lot,” she said, uncertain where Royan was leading. Not true, at the back of her mind she knew exactly. She just didn’t want to acknowledge it.

DO YOU LIKE ME, ELEANOR?

That grin didn’t have to be forced. “I keep coming back, don’t I?”

YES YES YES. THANK YOU.

She stood up, straightening the creases out of her sweatshirt. “Now don’t spend all your time working on the Abbey’s security system. Teddy says he needs you for Trinities work.”

BUGGER HIM… PARDON MY FRENCH. I DECIDE MY OWN PRIORITIES. ME ME ME.

“You’ll get me into trouble.”

NEVER. SAY HI TO GREG. TELL HIM HE HAD BETTER SHOW UP HIMSELF NEXT TIME.

“I will.”

AND YOU. COME BACK. SEE ME.

“Yes.” She gave him a last glance, non-human, shamed by the fact that she could never in a million years show so much bravery. There was no point in even asking him to come out to the farm. It could be done, physically, with stretchers and vans and plenty of advanced planning. But his inheritance tied him to Mucklands far tighter than the web of fibre-optic cables ever did. Him and Teddy, neither of them would leave; there was no point, they were Mucklands, it went with them wherever they were.

Qoi popped up out of the kitchen without being summoned, and showed her to the door.

As always, the sylphlike Julia Evans remains resolutely wedded to her fatal dress sense,” Jakki Coleman said. She was at her Mediterranean villa, lounging on a sunbed at the side of a kidney-shaped pool.

On the far side was a white stone balustrade, guarding the steep drop down to a muzzy blue sea. The palm trees were growing out of stone barrels, fronds stirring in a gentle breeze.

“Considering the perennial obsession which the Gothic cult has for the afterworld, this particular selection of garments worn for the Prior’s Fen footings ceremony is highly appropriate. Because, let’s face it, our poor dear Julia looks as if she’s been exhumed after a few weeks residing in a grave.”

“BITCH!” Julia shrieked.

Her tea cup hit the flatscreen in the centre, smashing into crescent fragments; it was the first object her searching hand could find, a big yellow and blue breakfast cup from the bedside tray. Sugary dregs began to trickle down the flat-screen, smearing the dark-haired young man who climbed out of the pool and began towelling himself off.

Patrick raised his head from the mounds of pillows which had accumulated on his side of the bed, blinking sleep from his eyes. “What?” he grunted blearily.

“Oh go back to sleep.” Julia fired the remote at the flatscreen, imagining it was a laser pistol, beam scorching a hole through Jakki Coleman’s head, her middle-aged head, and the shiny blue swimsuit showed her thighs were getting flabby too. She folded her arms below her breasts and glared at the blank rectangle.

Her bedroom was decorated in a soothing montage of pink and white tones, extremely feminine, with exquisite lacy frills on all the furniture, subdued lighting, a huge four-poster bed with a Romany canopy, ankle-deep pile carpet. It was the third redesign in four years; each time she edged closer to her ideal, the romantic French-château image she secretly treasured.