Eric Brown - Kéthani

He turned off the B-road and slowed, easing his Renault down a narrow lane between snow-topped dry-stone walls. The tyres cracked the panes of frozen puddles in a series of crunching reports. On either hand, for as far as the eye could see, the rolling moorland was covered in a pristine mantle of snow.

Murder…

Ten years ago Standish had worked as a detective inspector with the homicide division in Leeds. He had enjoyed the job. He’d been part of a good team and their detection and conviction rate had been high. He viewed his work as necessary in not only bringing law and order to an increasingly crime-ridden city, but also, in some metaphorical way, bringing a measure of order to what he saw as a disordered and chaotic universe. He had no doubt that every time he righted a wrong he was, on some deep subconscious level, putting right his own inability to cope with the hectic modern world he was finding less and less to his taste.

And then the Kéthani came along…

Within months, crime figures had dropped dramatically. Within a year, murders had fallen by almost eighty per cent. Why kill someone when, six months later, they would be resurrected and returned to Earth? In the early days, of course, murderers thought they could outwit the gift of the Kéthani. They killed their victims in hideous ways, ensuring that no trace of the body remained, and attempted to conceal or destroy the implant devices. But the nanotech implants were indestructible, and emitted a signal that alerted the local Onward Station to their whereabouts. Each implant contained a sample of DNA and a record of the victim’s personality. Within a day of discovery, the device would be ferried to the Kéthani home planet, and the individual successfully brought back to life. And then they would return to Earth and assist with investigations…

Two years after the coming of the Kéthani, the Leeds homicide division had been disbanded, and Standish shunted sideways into the routine investigation of car thefts and burglaries.

Like most people he knew, he had rejoiced at the arrival of the aliens and the gift they gave to humanity. He had been implanted within a month and tried to adjust his mind to the fact that he was no longer haunted by the spectre of death.

Shortly before the arrival of the Kéthani, Standish married Amanda Evans, the manageress of an optician’s franchise in Bradley. For a while, everything had been wonderful: love and life everlasting. But the years had passed, and his marriage to Amanda had undergone a subtle and inexplicable process of deterioration and he had gradually become aware that he was, somewhere within himself, deeply dissatisfied with life.

And he had no idea who or what to blame, other than himself.

The farmhouse was no longer the centre of a working farm but, like so many properties in the area, had been converted into an expensive holiday home. It sat on a hill with a spectacular view over the surrounding moorland.

Standish turned a corner in the lane and found his way blocked by the Range Rover belonging to one of the local ferrymen. He braked and climbed out into the teeth of a bitter wind. He turned up the collar of his coat and hurried across to the vehicle.

The ferryman sat in his cab, an indistinct blur seen through the misted side window. When Standish rapped on the glass and opened the door, he saw Richard Lincoln warming his hands on a mug of coffee from a Thermos.

“Doug, that was quick. Didn’t expect you people out here for a while yet.”

“I was passing. What happened?”

He’d got to know Lincoln over the course of a few tea-time sessions at the Dog and Gun a year ago, both men coming off duty at the same time and needing the refreshment and therapy of good beer and conversation.

Lincoln was a big, silver-haired man in his sixties, and unfailingly cheerful. He wore tweeds, which gave him a look of innate conservatism belied by his liberal nature. His bonhomie had pulled Standish from the doldrums on more than one occasion.

Lincoln finished his coffee. “Bloody strange, Doug. I was at the Station, on the vid-link with Sarah Roberts, a colleague. She was at home.” He pointed to the converted farmhouse. “We were going over a few details about a couple of returnees when she said she’d be back in a second—there was someone at the door. She disappeared from sight and came back a little later. She was talking to someone, obviously someone she knew. She was turning to the screen to address me when there was a loud… I don’t quite know how to describe it. A crack. A report.”

“A gunshot?”

Lincoln nodded. “Anyway, she cried out and fell away from the screen. I ran to the control room and sure enough… We were being signalled by her implant. She was dead. Look.”

Lincoln reached out and touched the controls of a screen embedded in the dashboard. An image flickered into life, and Standish made out the shot of a well-furnished front room, with a woman’s body sprawled across the floor, a bloody wound in her upper chest.

Absently, Lincoln fingered the implant at his temple. “I contacted you people and drove straight over.”

“Did you pass any other vehicles on the way here?”

Lincoln shook his head. “No. And I was on the lookout, of course. The strangest thing is… Well, come and see for yourself.”

Lincoln climbed from the cab and Standish joined him. They moved towards the wrought-iron gate that barred their way. It was locked.

“Look,” Lincoln said. He indicated the driveway and lawns of the farmhouse. A thick covering of snow gave the scene the aspect of a traditional Christmas card.

Standish could see no tracks or footprints.

“Follow me.” Lincoln walked along the side of the wall that encircled the property. Standish followed, wading through the foot of snow that covered the springy heather. They climbed a small rise and halted, looking down on the farmhouse from the elevated vantage point.

Lincoln pointed to the rear of the building. “Same again,” he said, looking at Standish.

“There’s not a single damned footprint to be seen,” Standish said.

“Nothing. No footprints, tyre-marks, tracks of any kind. The snow stopped falling around midday, so there’s no way a new fall could have covered any tracks. Anyway, the killer came to the house forty-five minutes ago.”

“But how? If he didn’t leave tracks…” Standish examined the ground, searching for the smallest imprint. He looked at Lincoln. “There is one explanation, of course.”

“There is?”

“The killer was always in the house, concealed somewhere. He came before the snow fell and hid himself. Then he emerged, crept through the house to the door, stepped outside and knocked.”

“But that’d mean…”

Standish nodded. “If I’m right, then he’s still in there.”

“What do you think?” Lincoln asked. “Should we go in?”

In the old days, before the Kéthani, he would not have risked it. Now, with death no longer the threat it used to be, he didn’t think twice.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They returned to the front gate and climbed over. Standish led the way, high-stepping through the deep snow.

He had the sudden feeling of being involved in one of those Golden Age whodunits he’d devoured as a teenager, stories of ingenious murders carried out with devious cunning and improbable devices.

The front door was unlocked. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, Standish carefully turned the handle and pushed open the door. He led the way to the lounge.

Sarah Roberts lay on her back before the flickering vid-screen. The earlier image of her, Standish thought, had done nothing to convey her beauty. She was slim and blonde, her face ethereally beautiful. Like an angel, he thought.