Peter Hamilton - Great North Road

Dobson gave him a small grin. “Certainly not, that would bring disgrace upon the force. Mind you, if you’re still here in the room after lunch you’ll owe me a hundred eurofrancs.”

“Oh cheers, pet. Nice to know you have that much confidence.”

“You don’t want it,” she said seriously. “Not this one. Let one of O’Rouke’s brown-nosers take it.”

“Aye, I might just.”

They went back out into the main office. Eva Sealand had just walked in, a senior constable specializing in visual interpretation, who’d reassigned from Leicester eighteen months ago. Sid had worked with her on a semi-permanent basis since she started at Newcastle, a cheerful redheaded Icelandic woman with three kids and a partner in some kind of company network management job that Sid never quite understood.

“Some work for you today,” he told her. “And then some.”

She smiled as she pulled her hair back and twisted it through an elastic tie. “I just heard,” she said quietly. “For real? A North?”

“I was there when they pulled him out of the Tyne last night.”

“Who else have you got?”

“Lorelle should be here soon. I’ve requested some extra members, and I expect we’ll just keep on expanding today.”

Eva leaned in close. “Are you staying?”

“Dobson’s running the sweep,” he muttered back. His main concern now was if he’d have anybody left to help with his other cases after O’Rouke shifted him back to normal duties. “But I’m telling you, pet, there’ll be some overtime to clock up on this, don’t you—” He broke off, staring in astonishment at the two officers who’d just walked in. “Aye, man,” he grunted.

Northumberland Interstellar didn’t have a monopoly on employing 2Norths. Given the personality that Kane had been so desperate to duplicate, that trait he valued above all else—his determination—could switch them one of two ways: Either they went straight to work in the family company, keen to push it farther on so many fronts—financial, industrial, political, legal—one heading up every department with younger versions ready to assume top-dog position; or they struck out for themselves, equally resolute to show they didn’t need family to get ahead. The second type were in a minority, and tended to set up businesses that ran in parallel with the interests of Northumberland Interstellar. An even smaller minority went into public service. In fact, Sid knew only of two: Abner 2North and Ari 2North, who were now standing in Office3’s doorway, looking around expectantly.

Abner was the elder of the two, in his late forties, reaching detective second grade, specializing in forensic analysis. Sid had worked with him several times in the last decade, and always found him a very effective officer no matter what case they were assigned. The fact Abner hadn’t reached a higher grade was always tied up with the biggest, longest-lasting gossip in the station: Outside politics, what motivation any of them could possibly have for joining the force was anyone’s guess. Sid didn’t worry himself over that—it was results that counted in this game, and Abner had a respectable cleanup rate. Ari was maybe twelve years younger, still a senior constable in the data management track, and equally capable. There were few ways of telling them apart. The occasional difference in hair length helped; Norths had dark mouse-brown hair that curled beyond any cosmetic product’s ability to tame, and didn’t gray until they were well over fifty. But they all favored keeping it cropped short, adding to the difficulty of separating them. Features didn’t help, either, as they were unnervingly identical: the flattish nose, rounded chin, gray-blue eyes, bushy eyebrows. They were also the same height, and Kane had clearly been one of those enviable people who didn’t put on weight on an age-related basis. Voice was a uniform gravelly bass that always sounded slightly too loud. The most common way to guess their age (and therefore difference) was a quick scope of the neck, which thickened as they got older, a process Sid always compared to rings in a tree trunk. But it was a quick and easy tag, as some of the older Norths he’d seen had necks as wide as their heads.

“Gentlemen,” Sid said quietly in greeting.

Abner gave him a tight smile. “Morning, boss. Good to see you’re taking the lead on this.”

“Thanks. So you understand who our victim is?”

“Aye,” Ari said.

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes.”

Abner put a hand on Sid’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. There’ll be no bias. Procedure at all times, right?”

“Absolutely,” Ari confirmed.

It gave Sid an odd feeling talking to them—the same face he’d seen bloodless and frozen eight hours ago. Enough to make him question his own judgment. And as for whoever had the smart idea of assigning them to the case… O’Rouke, of course. “All right then, we still don’t have his identity, and I need it. Once I have a name everything else should just fall into place. Find out for me. Any way you can.”

“There’s no name yet?” Abner asked. He sounded surprised.

“Early days,” Sid said. It was a shabby thing to tell them, but he wasn’t even sure if he should offer condolences for their loss. After all, the victim was family, right?

Lorelle Burdett, a generalist constable who was a regular on Sid’s case teams, arrived a couple of footsteps ahead of Royce O’Rouke, and Sid stopped worrying about trivia like the etiquette of clone family ties. Newcastle’s chief constable was dressed in his full uniform that morning, a dark tunic with an impressive number of colored service award bands and plenty of gold braid. O’Rouke was a sixty-seven-year-old who had risen through the ranks by virtue of a respectable cleanup rate and an inordinately dirty political skill. You were either one of his players, showing total loyalty as a useful scapegoat, or you would spend your entire career stalled as you investigated one suspected illegal toxic waste tipping after another.

Two aides in smart dark suits slid in behind O’Rouke: Chloe Healy, the force’s information officer, and Jenson San, the senior staff representative. Sid struggled not to give them the stone-face of contemptuous hatred. He really despised their type—enforcers and executioners of the regime—and as for their ability to misinterpret and misrepresent on behalf of their Dark Overlord, it was something that he could never master, let alone better.

Sid braced himself. This would be the moment when he was taken aside and given his new case assignment for the week. It was a shame—he could have done with the overtime.

O’Rouke shook his hand. “How’s it going, Detective?”

“Handover from the night shift almost complete, sir. The preliminary data I requested is downloaded. I’m about to outline the procedures I want followed, and designate assignments.” He was trying not to be obvious, glancing over O’Rouke’s shoulder to see which senior crony was hovering in the corridor ready to be introduced. But Jenson San closed the office door, and the blue rim light came on to show the room was secure.

“That’s good,” O’Rouke said; he turned to face the team. “All right, people, we all know the identity of the victim is going to create a storm of media interest. I want to emphasize that you do not make unauthorized statements. So we’re perfectly clear: that is not one fucking word. Anything, any contact you have with reporter scum or unlicensed site reps, you refer to Chloe here.” He indicated the information officer. “That directive is to be passed right down the chain of command to the police and agency staff you’ll be multiplying your investigation with. I can assure you that whatever budget requirement you have, it will be met. For this I expect a positive result. Newcastle must send out a clear message that no one is above or beyond the law. Nobody arrives here and commits this kind of crime against our most distinguished family and gets away with it. Understood?”