The Suspect Genome (greg mandel)

by Peter Hamilton

  Christine woke up and began her usual gurgle of interest at the world all around. “I'll take her out,” Greg said. “Andy, could you give me a hand.”

  Andy gave his father an uncertain glance. Noel nodded permission.

  Outside, Greg turned so that Christine was shielded from the bright rising sun. The kibbutz had resumed its normal routine of activity, interest in the visitors discarded. He looked across the collection of worn buildings with a kind of annoyed bemusement. Ten years of his life had been spent in active rebellion against an oppressive government, a decade of pain and death and blood so that people could once again have a chance to gather some dignity and improve their lives. And here on his own doorstep this group strove to return to medievalism at its worst, burdened by everlasting manual labor and in thrall to evangelical priests who could never accept anyone else was even entitled to a different point of view. A community where progress is evil.

  The irony made him smile—something he would never have done before meeting Eleanor. A freedom fighter (now, anyway—after all, they were the ones writing the history files) appalled by the use to which his gift of freedom had been put. People…they're such a pain in the arse.

  “He's gonna die, isn't he?”

  Greg bounced Christine about, enjoying her happy grin at the motion. “Yes, Andy, I think he is.” The young man knew it anyway, just needed to be told by someone else. As if saying it would make it so, would make it his fault.

  “I can't believe it. Not him. He's so strong…where it counts, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know it. I had to face him down once. Toughest fight in my life.”

  “That's my father.” Andy was on the point of tears.

  “What happened?” Greg scanned the kibbutz again. “There's no cars here, no traffic.”

  Andy's arm was raised, pointing away over the fields toward the road. “There. We found him over there. Helped carry him back myself.”

  “Can you show me, please?”

  They tramped over the sun-baked mud tracks, moving along the side of the tall fences, a long winding route. Andy was quiet as they walked. Nervous, Greg assumed, after years of being warned of the demon who had captured his big sister.

  “This is where we found him,” Andy said eventually.

  They were on a stretch of track running between two of the fences. Two hundred meters away toward Oakham was a gate which opened onto the tiny road linking Egleton with the A6003: a hundred meters in the other direction it led out into a paddock with other tracks and footpaths spreading off over the kibbutz land, a regular motorway intersection.

  Greg knelt down beside the fence where Andy indicated. A herd of cattle on the other side watched them idly, chewing on the few blades of grass they could find amid the buttercups. The three lower bars of the fence were splintered, bowing inward; and they were thick timber. It had taken a lot of force to cause that much damage. They had some short paint streaks along them, dark blue; a dusting of chrome flakes lay on the mud. Greg stood and tried to work out the angle of the impact. The car or whatever would have had to veer very sharply to dint the fence in such a fashion. It wasn't as though it would be swerving to avoid oncoming traffic.

  “Was he right up against the fence?” Greg asked.

  “Yeah, almost underneath it when we found him.”

  “Did he say what happened?”

  “Not much. Just that the car was big, and it had its headlights on full. Then it hit him, he got trapped between it and the fence.”

  “Headlights? Was it nighttime?”

  “No. It was early evening, still light.”

  “Did anyone else see it happen?”

  “No. We started searching when he didn't turn up for evening chapel. It was dark by then; didn't find him till after ten.”

  “What about the car?” Greg indicated the gate onto the road. “It must have come from that direction, where was it going?”

  “Don't know. Didn't come to us; haven't had no visitors for a while. We're the only ones that use this bit of track. It's the quickest way out to the road.”

  “What do you use on the road?”

  “We've got bicycles. And a cart; horse pulls it to market most days. We sell vegetables and eggs. People still like fresh food instead of that chemical convenience packet rubbish.”

  “Okay, so the car must have reversed away and got back onto the road afterward. So was your father on a bike?”

  “No.” Andy shook his head ruefully. “He didn't even like them. Said: God gave us feet, didn't he? He always walked into town.”

  “Do you know what he was doing in town that day?”

  “Gone to see the solicitor.”

  “What the hell did Noel want with a solicitor?”

  “It's a bad business been happening here. A man came a month or so back. Said he wanted to build a leisure complex on the shore, right where we are. He offered us money, said that it wasn't really our land anyway and he'd help us find somewhere else to live. What kind of a man is that to disrespect us so? We built this place. It's ours by any law that's just and true.”

  “Right,” Greg said. Now probably wasn't the best time to lecture Andy on the kind of abuses which the local PSP Land Rights committees had perpetrated against private landowners. Nevertheless, expelling a farmer from his land so it could be handed over to a tribe of Bible-thumpers was a minor violation compared to some of the practices he'd heard of. The Party had been overthrown in one final night of mass civil disobedience and well-planned acts of destruction by underground groups, but the problems it had created hadn't gone with it. “So what did Noel want with a solicitor?”

  “He kept coming back, that man, after we said we wouldn't go. Said he'd have us evicted like so many cattle. Said everyone around here would be glad to see us go, that we were Party, so we'd best make it easy for ourselves. Dad wasn't having none of that. We have rights, he said. He went and found a solicitor who'd help us. Seeing as how we'd been here so long, we're entitled to appeal to the court for a ruling of post-acquisition compensation. Means we'd have to pay the farmer whose land it was. But that way we wouldn't have to leave. It would cost us plenty. We'd have to work hard to raise that much money, but we ain't afraid of hard work.”

  “I see.” Greg looked down at the broken sections of fence, understanding now what had really happened here. “What is this man's name, the one who wants you off?”

  “Richard Townsend, he's a property developer lives in Oakham.”

  “You think Townsend had my father run down?” Eleanor asked. They were sitting out on the farmhouse's newly laid patio, looking across the southern branch of Rutland Water. Citrus groves covered the peninsula's slope on both sides of the house's grounds, the young trees fluttering their silky verdant leaves in the breeze. Phalanxes of swans and signets glided past on the dark water, their serenity only occasionally broken by a speeding windsurfer.

  “It's the obvious conclusion,” Greg said bitterly. “Noel was the center of opposition, the one they all follow. Without him they might just keep the legal challenge going but their heart won't be in it. For all his flaws, he was bloody charismatic.”

  “You mean intimidating.”

  “Call it what you like; he was the one they looked to. And now…”

  She closed her eyes, shuddering. “He won't last another day, Greg. I don't think it would make any difference now, even if we could get him into hospital.”

  She hadn't talked much about her father's condition since they had arrived back at the farmhouse at midday. The morning's events were taking time to assimilate. She had done what she could with the medicines in the first-aid kit, easing the worst of his pain. He had pretended indifference when she said she would return later. It didn't convince anyone. Her ambivalence was a long way from being resolved. It had been a very wide rift.

  “Townsend won't have done it personally,” Greg said. “There'll be a perfect alibi with plenty of witnesses while whoever he hired drove the car. But he won't be a
ble to hide guilt from me during the interview.”

  “That won't work, darling,” she said sadly. “It still takes a lot for a jury to be convinced by a psychic's evidence. And you're hardly impartial in this case. A novice barrister on her first case would have you thrown out of court.”

  “Okay. I accept that. We need some solid evidence to convict him.”

  “Where are you going to get that from? You don't even really know for certain that it was Townsend. You can hardly interrogate him privately and then tell the police what he's done and ask them to follow it up.”

  “The car is evidence,” Greg said. “Andy called in an official hit-and-run report from Egleton's phonebox. I'll start with that.”

  Greg left Eleanor at the kibbutz next morning, and drove on into Oakham. It had been a couple of years since he'd visited the police station. The desk sergeant reacted with a stoicism verging on contempt when Greg asked him what progress had been made on the hit-and-run. “I'll check the file for you, but don't expect too much.”

  “The man it hit is my father-in-law. He's going to die from the injuries.”

  A squirt of information colored the sergeant's desktop terminal cube with flecks of light. “Sorry, sir. Whoever reported the incident didn't know what the vehicle was, nor when it happened. If we don't have anything to go on, we can't make enquiries. There's nothing to ask.”

  “Did anyone even go out there and check? He's dying! The driver of that vehicle has killed him.”

  The sergeant did manage to look reasonably embarrassed. “The nature of the injuries wasn't disclosed at the time, sir. It's not down here.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “The case would have been graded accordingly.”

  “Graded? What the fuck is graded?”

  “We would have given the incident a higher priority, sir.”

  Greg bit back on his immediate reply. Shouting at the ranks wasn't going to solve anything—it was the generals not the squaddies who decide the campaign strategy. He paused, took a breath. “What about forensic? There are all sorts of marks out there, even some paint off the bodywork. Any decent forensic lab would be able to match the paint type with the manufacturer, at least get an idea of what kind of vehicle they were driving. Then you could start asking if anyone saw it.”

  “Yes, sir. Was the gentleman insured?”

  “For what?”

  “Crime investigation finance. It's becoming more necessary these days. Most companies offer it as part of their employment package along with health cover, pension, housing guarantee, that kind of thing. You see, the sort of investigation you're talking about launching will absorb a lot of our resources. The Rutland force has only limited civic funds. To be honest with you, successfully tracing the driver would be a long shot. The chief has to focus his budget on areas which have a good probability of bringing positive results.”

  “I don't believe this. He's a kibbutznik, he's not employed by some big-shot corporation. The only money they have comes from selling eggs at the market. But that doesn't mean he's not a citizen; he's entitled to time and attention from the police.”

  “Sorry, sir. I'm not trying to discourage you, just telling you the way it is these days. I don't want you to leave here with false hopes of us being able to launch a manhunt for the driver. And even if we did, a hit-and-run incident without a witness…” He shook his head. “Just about zero conviction rate.”

  “I can pay,” Greg said. He pulled out his platinum Event Horizon card. “Just show me what I have to sign, and get that bloody forensic team out there.”

  “It's Sunday, sir. The assigned case officer won't be in until tomorrow, I'm afraid. You'll have to speak with him about upgrading the investigation status.”

  Greg wondered if they would have the resources to investigate a member of the public punching an officer inside the station. Tempting to find out.

  “There are private forensic laboratories, sir,” the desk sergeant said. “We have an approved list if you'd like to use one. Some of them are very good.”

  It was no good shouting. Greg could see he was trying to be helpful, after a fashion. At which point Amanda Patterson called out his name.

  Greg put the two pints of Ruddles County down on the table. Mike Wilson gave his glass a wary look.

  “Cheers,” Greg said. After they had got back from the Sullivan bungalow, he had waited outside the police station until the insurance agent had come out, then invited him for a quiet drink at the Wheat sheaf pub just around the corner. So far, Wilson was curious enough not to offer resistance, but he was clearly worried.

  “You can relax,” Greg told him. “I used to be a private eye. I've worked on corporate cases before. I understand the need for discretion at times like this.”

  “Uh huh.” Mike took a sip of his beer.

  “I know who did it.” From a psychic perspective, the jolt of surprise flashing into Wilson's mind was quite amusing. He only just managed to avoid it triggering a physical jerk. That spoke of good self-control. Greg wasn't surprised at that, it confirmed several things he had speculated about the man.

  “Who? We didn't see anyone who matched that bloody genome image.”

  Greg folded his arms and smiled. “You don't need to know.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “I don't want them convicted.”

  “I see.”

  “Which is the same reason you were given this investigation, isn't it? Keep an eye on Amanda. Wise move by your company. I worked with her before. She's a smart girl. And a very good police officer. She won't make compromises.”

  “And you will?”

  “When it suits me. And this certainly does.”

  “Crescent Insurance would be happy to consider an adequate remuneration for the time you've spent advising Oakham CID.”

  “You should research more. I'm already rich.”

  “What then?”

  “Tell me what line of investigation Crescent wants avoiding, and I'll see if we can help each other.”

  Wilson took a slow sip, and eased back into his chair. “Okay. I'm actually on secondment to Crescent; my employer is Hothouse.”

  “Byrne Tyler's agency?”

  “Yeah. Look, showbiz is not pretty, okay? We deal with images, illusions. That's what we sell: characters larger than life. To the general public, Byrne is some hot young chunk of meat with a six-pack stomach and the devil's smile. In the dramas all he's got to do is show off that body in some tough action sequences and blow away bad guys with his big gun. In real life we portray him as an It Guy; he goes to all the best parties, he dates the most beautiful actresses and models, he's friends with the older, real celebrities. That's what we're promoting here, the more he's in the 'casts, the more 'castworthy he is. Doesn't matter if it's private-life gossip, or reviews for his latest pile of interactive shit. We put him out there and shine a light on him for everyone to idolize and buy every tie-in funny-colored chocolate bar we can slam at them. We make money, and Byrne gets a bigger apartment and a better nose job. Unfortunately, in reality, he's some half-wit sink-estate boy from Walthamstow we uprooted and dropped in front of the cameras. That's a shock to anyone's system. Certainly for him it was. He couldn't tell where the image stopped and life began. He's got a syntho habit, a dream punch habit, a sweet&sour habit…he even uses crack, for Christ's sake; he can barely remember his one-word catch-phrase, and his autograph isn't in joined-up writing. What I'm saying is, he needs—needed—a lot of agency management and handling to cope with his new existence, right down to potty-training level.”

  “You didn't like him.”

  “I've never met him. Like I said, this is showbusiness, with the emphasis on business. Byrne Tyler was an investment on Hothouse's part. And it was starting to go ripe. A year ago he was living on credit, and his career was nose-diving. Well, even that's okay. It's not exactly the first time that's happened to a celeb. We know how to handle that. We got him partway through detox thera
py, paired him up with the gorgeous Tamzin, and together they're riding high. Bingo, we're back on track, he's being offered new interactives, she's getting runway assignments for the bigger couture houses.”

  “So you wrote a happy ending. So what's the problem?”

  “The problem is the middle of the story. When his cash was low and no studio would touch him, he earned his living the oldest way you can. All those trophy wives who's husbands are so decrepit they can't even take Laynon anymore. Single trust-fund babes, except at their age they aren't babes any longer. Even supermodels who wanted a serious no-comebacks, no-involvement shagging one night. Tyler serviced them all.”

  “Let me guess. You pimped him.”

  “Our investment was going negative. We pointed people in the right direction. Nobody got hurt. It paid off.”

  “Except now he's dead. And he recorded all those women on that big waterbed of his.”

  “Stupid little prick.” Wilson nodded remorsefully. “Was it one of them, some husband or boyfriend who found out?”

  “No. You're in the clear.”

  “Hardly. Amanda Patterson is going to start phoning around that goddamn list he left behind. Look, he beds twenty rich and famous girls, and he's a superstud, a hero to the lads. Thirty and he's unbelievable…how the hell did he manage that? Fifty of the richest women in Europe night after night, and damn right nobody'll believe it can happen. There's going to be rumors; the media will start scratching round. We won't be able to keep a lid on it.”

  “Perfect,” Greg said. “I can deliver someone who can take the rap for Tyler's death. Amanda will stop phoning your list, and go after him instead. The Tyler case will be closed, and the women involved can quietly apply to the police for the recordings to be wiped under the privacy act.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A nasty little man called Richard Townsend.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “No reason you should. But I'm going to need a motive to link him in with Tyler. What other failings did our late celebrity have?”