Peter Hamilton - The Mandel Files

Julia cleared her throat. “The ship in the Atlantic.”

“Yes,” Walshaw said. “I can arrange a hardliner assault. We might even retrieve some more of our memox crystals.”

“See to it,” said Philip. “You’ve done some good work for me here, Greg, I won’t forget. You too, boy.”

Victor ducked his head.

Julia took her grandfather’s hand, steadying the shaking fingers. “That’s enough, Grandee.”

“I’ll get back to you later,” Walshaw said.

Julia gave him a vaguely remorseful nod before the image blanked out.

Greg spent another ten minutes filling in details for Walshaw before saying goodbye. He’d been away from Eleanor for too long.

“There’s a permanent job for you at Event Horizon if you want it,” the Security Chief said as Greg reached the door.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Greg said. He didn’t even have to think about it. Office hours, suit, tie, the same people day after day. He had wanted something regular, but not regimented. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

The nineteen-fifties Rolls-Royce was waiting for him on Stanstead’s buckling grey concrete as he came out of the administration block, chauffeur already opening the door.

Philip Evans died two days later. His funeral was the biggest civic event to be held in Peterborough for two generations. The Prime Minister and two senior royals were in respectful attendance.

His will named Julia Hazel Snowflower Evans as his sole beneficiary.

Julia watched the crackling life of the night-time city through the Rolls-Royce’s tinted windows, impatient for the ride to be over, the drama she’d conceived to unfold. She could almost believe they were driving through some German metropolis. Peterborough’s New Eastfleld district possessed the same frantic pace and power, the strut that came from being number one.

Its buildings were post-Warming, laid out in a precise geometrical array, like Manhattan before the Anarchy March. They were foreign funded, a thorn in the side of the PSP, physical evidence the Party couldn’t fulfil its promises. All of them followed the same palaeo-Spanish theme, six-storey, marble or cut stone, with long balconies that sported a profusion of greenery and flowers. Smart-uniformed doormen stood outside the gingery smoked-glass lobbies.

Wealth was everywhere, in clothes, jewellery, salon beauty; in the absence of bicycles and graffiti.

The road was clogged with traffic: gas-electric hybrid BMWs and Mercs cruised up and down, their headlights and tail-lights two contrasting severed ribbons of light. The folksy tables of pavement cafés were spread out under brightly striped awnings, alternating with arched entrances into small arcades of exclusive shops. Brightly lit windows full of designer-label clothes and esoteric gear silhouetted the fast-moving pedestrians, painting their faces in cool neon tones. Soft warm rain had fallen earlier in the evening, its residual sheen reflecting gaudy biolum ads in long wavering flames from walls and paving slabs.

But the prosperity was only a few blocks across. A ghetto of the rich. She remembered Grandpa saying that New Eastfield was a seed, that in a proper economy this kind of life style would spread out like a microbe culture, consuming and changing its surrounding neighbourhoods, right out to the city boundaries. He’d wanted the New Conservatives to build cores like it in every English city, showcases for a top-led society, the acceptable face of capitalism.

Good old Grandpa. An eternal optimist. But there were a lot of people enjoying the balmy evening street life.

“Are you sure Bil will be there?” Katerina asked.

Julia turned away from the window, back to the subdued oyster shade inside the car. Her friend was wearing a skintight black tube dress; a slash down the front was loosely laced up, showing the deep cleft between her breasts. Brazen, but Julia was forced to admit she looked wonderful. Her hair was a fluffy gold cloud.

“He was invited,” Julia said tonelessly. Bil Yi Somanzer: the hottest, meanest rock and roller in the history of the world, ever. Even Kats would look ordinary around his groupies. She smiled in the shadows; Kats had only agreed to come after she’d promised her Bil would be there.

“Well, Julie, dear, anyone can invite him. Having him turn up is different.”

“He’ll be there. Stars and the media, they need each other. Feed off each other. And media doesn’t come any bigger than Uncle Horace.”

Kats wasn’t convinced, fuchsia lips screwing up petulantly, but Adrian nudged her quiet. He was wearing a white jacket, black bow tie, a red rose tucked into his buttonhole. Stunningly handsome. And he’d silenced Kats from spouting off inanely because he knew she was still supposed to be shaken over Grandpa’s death. Her feelings mattered to him.

The Rolls dipped down into the giant Castlewood condominium’s underground garage. Horace Jepson had his own private park on the second level. Thick metal doors swung open as the chauffeur showed his card to the lock.

Steven Welbourn and Rachel Griffith, Julia’s two bodyguards, hurried out of the trail car as the little convoy came to a halt. Both of them were wearing formal evening dress, Steven in a dinner jacket, Rachel in a long navy-blue gown. Their alert faces scanned the stark, brightly lit concrete cave. They needn’t have bothered, two of Horace’s own security staff were waiting for them.

There was a distinct air of farce about the entire scene. But Julia was careful not to show disapproval. Steven and Rachel were just doing their job, and she got on quite well with them. Steven had been with her for years, almost since she came to Europe, a twenty-seven-year-old with sandy hair that she teased him was already thinning. He was sympathetic about her circumstances, and his discretion had been demonstrated time and again, considering the schoolgirl truancies which he could have told her grandfather about. Rachel had been with her for about a year; a twenty-two-year-old with neat close-cut mousy hair; she came across as a mix of big sister and maiden aunt. Courteous, but an absolute stickler for security protocol, always checking the toilet cubicle first, which could get embarrassing. Of course, one day she might be very glad of them. Besides, any complaints would find their way back to Morgan Walshaw. And then there’d be another bloody lecture.

The five of them squeezed into the penthouse lift. Kats and Adrian didn’t notice the press, lost in a private world of furtive smirks and hungry looks. Julia gritted her teeth.

The lift opened straight into the vestibule of Horace Jepson’s suite. Music and conversation hit them as the doors slid apart.

On her previous visits, the centre of the penthouse had been divided up into various function areas by hand-painted Japanese silk screens depicting scenes from mythological battles, samurai and improbable creatures. Now the screens had all been folded back against the walls leaving one big open space. Coloured jelly-blobs of hologram light swam through the air, wobbling in time to a loud acid-thrash version of ‘Brown Sugar’. Bodies packed the black-tiled dance floor, a rainbow riot of frantic movement; older sweating men with younger energetic girls. More people lined the vestibule walls under the umbrella of fern fronds; drinking, chattering excitedly. She recognized a lot of faces from the channels.

Trust Uncle Horace. There was nothing refined about this party, it was deliberate Dionysian overload without a refuge, forcing you to enjoy. She wondered if he’d have a topless model bursting out of a cake at some point. More than likely.

Horace Jepson broke free of the crowd, shooing away a girl who had the glossy vibrancy and dazzling pout of a Playmate. He was smiling warmly at Julia. A genuine smile, she thought. Then it flickered slightly as he took her in, as though she’d come in the wrong sort of dress, or something. But she’d chosen a five-thousand-pound Dermani gown, pale pink silk with a mermaid-tail skirt; nothing like as tarty as the rest of the girls she could see, so that couldn’t be it.