Peter Hamilton - A Quantum Murder

"Not what we're here for."

"Speak for yourself," Teddy muttered.

"What then?" Knebel asked.

"Launde Abbey."

"What?" Knebel blurted loudly. He shrank back when Greg motioned with the stunshot. "Sorry. Really, I'm sorry. But… is that it? You came to ask me about Launde Abbey?"

"Yeah. Now I've come a long way, and gone to a lot of trouble to rap with you. So believe me, you don't want to piss me off. You know I'm empathic, so just answer the questions truthfully."

"All right. I saw you on the newscast the other night. You were appointed to the Kitchener murder, something to do with Julia Evans." His eyes lingered on the 'ware modules hanging from Greg's belt.

Greg switched in the communication module's external mike. "Tell me about Clarissa Wynne."

"Clarissa? God, that was years and years ago. I'd almost forgotten about her until the other day. That newscast brought a lot of memories back."

"Ten years ago. What can you remember?"

Knebel closed his eyes, slim eyebrows bunching up. "Ten? Are you sure? I thought it was eleven."

"It could have been."

"Well, what does it say in her file?"

"That is the reason I'm here, Knebel. Someone has erased every byte of Clarissa Wynne from Rutland's memory cores; police, council, local newspapers, you name it, the lot."

"God."

"Do you know who?"

"No."

"Right. You say you thought she died eleven years ago?"

"Yes, I'm sure it was eleven."

"OK, what orders did you get from the Ministry of Public Order about her death?"

"To wrap it up immediately, make the coroner enter a verdict of accidental death, not to cause any ripples, especially not to antagonize Kitchener and the other students."

"Why not? Why was the PSP so anxious to hush the girl's death up? What made her so important?"

Knebel gave him a humourless smile. "Important? Clarissa Wynne wasn't important. God, the Ministry didn't even know her name. She was an embarrassment. You see, eleven years ago, the PSP was applying to the World Bank for a very large loan, billions. You remember that time, Mandel; the seas were reaching their peak, we'd got hundreds of thousands of refugees pouring inland from flooded coastal areas, we didn't have any food, we didn't have any industry, we didn't have any hard currency. It was a fucking great mess. We needed that loan to get the economy started again. And the Americans didn't want to help a bunch of Reds. No matter we were elected—"

Teddy growled dangerously. Greg held up a hand, sensing just how hostile Teddy's mind was.

"OK. All right. I'm sorry," Knebel said. "No politics. But look, the point was, the PSP couldn't afford a human rights issue. The Americans would have leapt on it as an excuse to block the loan, destabilize the Party. Kitchener, for all he was bloody obnoxious personally, was internationally renowned, someone whose name people knew all over the world. Can you see the disinformation campaign the Americans would have mounted if I'd started questioning the students and Kitchener thoroughly? Their friend and colleague has been tragically drowned, and all the PSP does is persecute them with inquiries and allegations. It would have been Sakharov all over again. We needed that money, Mandel, people were starting to starve. In England, for God's sake! Pensioners. Children. So I did what I was told, and I kept my mouth shut afterwards. Because it was necessary. And to hell with you and your rich bitch mistress. I don't care how wise after the event you are."

So much anger, Greg thought, and just from one question. Will we ever heal the rift? "Morgan? Did you hear all that?"

"Yes, Greg."

"OK, check the date for that World Bank loan application, please. I'd like some verification."

"Right."

Knebel had cocked his head to one side, listening to Greg's side of the conversation intently. He still had his arms around the woman, cradling her. A ribbon of saliva was leaking from the corner of her mouth, eyelids fluttering erratically.

"Now," Greg said. "Why were you so upset about having to close down the inquiry? I was told Clarissa drowned in the lake after some sort of drinking session. Was it an accident?"

"I'm not sure. At the time I didn't think so. You get an instinct, you know? After you've been on the job long enough you can tell if something's not quite right. And I was a good detective, back then. Before it all… I cared," he said defensively.

"Yeah. Keith Willet told me."

"Keith?" Knebel brightened for an instant. "God, is he still at Oakham? How is he?"

"Just get on with it, Knebel."

"All right." He shot Teddy another twitchy glance, then cleared his throat. "I wasn't happy with the circumstances around Clarissa Wynne's death. The students said they found her floating in the lake first thing in the morning, that she must have gone for a swim sometime in the night. Apparently the students always went swimming there."

"Still do," Greg said.

"Yes? Well, anyway, on the surface it was pretty clear cut. She'd been drinking, she'd infused some syntho. That was the first time we'd ever come across the stuff at Oakham. She must have got into difficulty in the water. Those lakes aren't particularly deep, but you only need five centimetres to drown in."

"So what was wrong about it?"

Knebel sighed. "She hadn't drunk much that evening, a couple of glasses of wine. And the syntho, we couldn't be sure, we didn't know much about it back then, but it looked as though it was infused very close to the time she died. Almost as if she took it and dived straight in. Which I don't believe anybody would do, certainly not a bright girl like that. I was going to have the pathology samples sent to Cambridge for a more detailed examination, then the shut-down order came through."

"Suicide?" Greg suggested.

"Nope. First thing I thought of. We did get to ask the students and Kitchener a few preliminary questions. Clarissa Wynne was one happy girl. She enjoyed being at Launde. Her parents confirmed there were no family problems. In any case, there was some light bruising on the back of her neck." He shrugged limply. "It could have been caused by bumping in to something in the water."

"Or it could have been caused by someone holding her under," Greg concluded.

"Yes. if the attacker had put her in a Nelson lock on the side of the lake, the bruising would have been consistent with her head being forced under the surface. Especially if she was conscious. She was young, strong, apparently she was in the woman's hockey team at university, a sports type, she could have put up quite a struggle. The attacker would have had to use a lot of force."

"Any sign of a struggle?"

"No. The grass around the side of the lake was all beaten down. Like I said, the students used it each day."

A dire chill slithered through the combat leathers to prickle Greg's skin as he thought about Clarissa Wynne's death. She would have struggled, that night eleven years ago, fighting her attacker under the silent, beautiful stars, without any hope of success or help. Terribly alone as her head was shoved under the cold muddy water. She would feel her body weakening, be conscious of the syntho breaking her mind apart. And all the while the red ache in her lungs grew and grew.

No fucking wonder he'd been drawn to the lake. It was a focal node of horror and anguish.

Did her soul haunt it? Was that what I sensed?

But whatever the source of the misery, it still didn't explain how her death tied in with Nicholas Beswick.

"Who did you suspect?" he asked Knebel.

"God, I never had time to find a possible suspect. That Ministry order came through in less than a day."

"Well, start thinking about it now, Knebel. What about Kitchener himself? I mean, he was sleeping with his female students the night he died. Sixty-seven years old. Eleven years ago he would have been even more capable sexually."