The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Julia! How’s my favourite billionairess?”

  “Soldiering on, Uncle Horace.”

  “You don’t look like you’re suffering. You look gorgeous. Damn, but you grew up pretty. I wish I was twenty years younger.”

  She put on her most innocent expression, and batted her eyelashes for him. “Uncle Horace, why ever do you want to go back down to being sixty again?”

  “Julia!” He looked crestfallen.

  “Have you been skipping your diet again?” she asked sternly.

  “Terrific. I don’t hear a word for three weeks, and she phones me up to nag.”

  “You have. Well, stop it. You know what your doctor said. You should get out of the office and down to the executive gym.”

  “Sure thing, Julia. I’ll start tomorrow.”

  She sucked on her lower lip, a bashfulness that wasn’t entirely artificial. “Uncle Horace.”

  “Oh, my God. How much is this going to cost?”

  “Nothing. Um, I need a sort of favour.”

  “You owe me fifteen.”

  “Can we go for sixteen?”

  He rolled his eyes dramatically. “You don’t want to meet another actor, do you? Some of my guests still ain’t talking to me after that party.”

  There was a warm tingling in her cheeks at the memory. She was sure she hadn’t been as tipsy as everyone said. “No, Uncle Horace,” she said firmly. “Definitely no more actors. Do you remember Greg and Eleanor Mandel?”

  “Sure, who could forget Eleanor? Greg seemed like a nice guy, on the level. Psychic, right?”

  “Yes. We asked him to assist the police working on the Edward Kitchener murder case.”

  He frowned, fleshy wrinkles deepening around his eyes. “You’re involved with that?”

  “Event Horizon had a research contract with Kitchener. Right now I’m praying that isn’t the reason behind his death. Greg will find out for me.”

  “I see.”

  “But the press are giving him a hard time.”

  “Now come on, Julia.”

  “I don’t want them to stop reporting the case,” she said hurriedly. “If they could just lay off badgering Greg. He didn’t want to take the case in the first place. And you know he doesn’t play the political game, he’s too honest. The last thing he needs is the press jumping all over him just for doing his job.”

  Horace Jepson sighed resignedly. “All right, Julia. I’ll tell the editors to go easy.”

  “Uncle Horace, you’re an angel.”

  “And I’d like you to come to a programme launch party next month.” He started typing on a keyboard out of the camera’s field of view. “Dreamicind Nights, it’s called, a ten-part fantasy drama. It’s gonna be big, Julia. This summer’s ratings winner.”

  “I’ll be there. Promise.”

  “Cliff is gonna be organizing it,” he said hopefully.

  Her contented expression never wavered. She was proud of that self-control. “That’ll be nice. I haven’t seen him for ages.” Clifford Jepson was Horace’s son from the first of his four marriages. Julia couldn’t stand the sight of him, he had his father’s drive without any of his father’s charm. It made him come over as brattishly domineering. The trouble was, Uncle Horace had them down as the perfect match, with himself as Cupid.

  “OK, Julia, my staff will squirt the details to your office.”

  “Fine. I’ll look forward to it. And thank you again, Uncle Horace.”

  He signed off smiling happily.

  Julia pursed her lips in antipathy. She’d solved Eleanor’s grouse; but there was no way she could get out of that bloody launch party now.

  CHAPTER 7

  The interviews were the one part of the case Greg had been dreading. The word association game, watching the way minds reacted to key phrases, was chained too tightly to his army days. It intimated funereal dug-out bunkers, sweating defiant prisoners in torn bloody fatigues, the smell of gun oil and vomit, the high-voltage emotions of hatred and terror, perceptible even to non-psychics. The seemingly limitless brutality which men were capable of.

  Even the interview room at Oakham police station was a party to the anamnesis; sombre fawn-coloured walls, a leaden grey desk, acutely curved plastic chairs, scuffed black door.

  A rectangular conditioning grille emitted an annoying buzzing sound just on the threshold of audibility. Steely light shining through a high window was complemented by a harsh glow from two biolum panels set in the old fluorescent tube recesses in the ceiling. A wide-angle camera was mounted on the wall above the desk, optical cable running down to a twin-crystal AV recording deck.

  Greg sat on one side of the desk, Langley and Nevin flanking him. He took out his cybofax and summoned up the list of questions he wanted to ask, then placed it on the desk.

  Rosette Harding-Clarke came in, accompanied by her lawyer, Matthew Slater. Since the New Conservatives had been elected, anyone being interviewed by the police was entitled to legal advice, irrespective of whether they were being charged or not. The measure was intended to allay public mistrust of the dodgy practices which the People’s Constables had included in police procedure.

  There were three lawyers, out of Oakharn’s pool of five, representing the six students. They had objected when he said he wanted to interview the students.

  “You aren’t an official investigating officer,” Lisa Collier, a matronly fifty-five-year-old, had told him pompously. “You have no authority to conduct an interview, certainly not with co-operating witnesses, which is all the students are at this point. And I’m not having my clients subjected to a psychic privacy invasion. They have a right to silence so they don’t incriminate themselves.”

  Greg had simply turned to Vernon Langley. “Arrange for a magistrate’s hearing this afternoon. Charge all six students with suspected manslaughter.” He gave Lisa Collier a thin smile. “As a specialist assigned to the investigation I am entitled to sit in on any subsequent questioning of legally detained suspects. And any evidence acquired psychically during those interviews is admissible in court.”

  The three lawyers had gone into a huddle, and decided not to call his bluff.

  Matthew Slater slotted a man-black memox crystal into the recording deck, and sat down beside Rosette. She was wearing a black singlet of some glossy fabric, a cropped black jacket with thin white curlicues embroidered on the shoulders, and a short black leather skirt. Her auburn hair was folded in a neat pleat.

  She gave Greg a fleeting glance of acknowledgement, completely ignoring the detectives behind him. The whole act informed them that she wasn’t going to be intimidated.

  He had to admit she was an impressive girl physically. Nor was there any hint of weakness in her emotional make up.

  Langley pushed a memox crystal in the recorder’s free slot, and touched the power stud. “Interview with Rosette Harding-Clarke,” he said formally. “Conducted by CID advisory specialist Greg Mandel in the presence of officers Langley and Nevin.”

  Matthew Slater leaned forwards. “For the record, Miss Harding-Clarke’s participation in this interview is entirely voluntary. She is here because of her wish to help apprehend the killer of Edward Kitchener. And therefore she reserves the right to refuse to answer any question which is not directly applicable to this topic.”

  Rosette Harding-Clarke stared straight at Greg, and gave him a lopsided knowing smile. “Silence wouldn’t do me any good, would it?” she said. “Not with you. You could strip anything you wanted from me.”

  He ordered a low-level secretion from his gland. Her amusement began to impinge on his perception, it bordered on contempt. Rosette looked down on everybody from her own private Olympus.

  “The reaction of your mind to questions cannot be disguised,” he said.

  “I can run, but I can’t hide.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “If you begin to ask Miss Harding-Clarke irrelevant questions then we shall be forced to terminate the interview,” Matthew Sla
ter warned.

  “No, I won’t,” she said. “I’m glad you are here. This case is obviously well beyond the ability of these bumbling Mr Plods. And I want the bastard caught. Too bad we haven’t got the death penalty any more. So ask away. Did I do it? No. You can confirm that, can’t you?” Her eyebrows arched challengingly.

  “Unfortunately it’s not that simple. I need to know what happened that night at Launde, build up a complete picture, so I have several questions.”

  “Yes, all right, get on with it then.”

  “Did you make any external calls that day, or establish a datalink to an outside ‘ware system?”

  “I made a few phone calls, sure. Just friends. I’d go bananas if the only people I had to talk to were the other students. And I was doing some work that morning, Edward had me trying to produce a more accurate figure for the age of the universe. I plugged into the Oxford University astronomy department mainframe for reference data.”

  “Now, that Friday morning, you were the first to find the body. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was that?”

  “God. It’s in the statement, I must have told these oafs a hundred times.”

  “What time?”

  “God, all right. About half-past five on Friday morning, give or take five minutes.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone else in the corridor when you went to Kitchener’s room?”

  “No.”

  Greg tightened the focus of his espersense. “How about a presence you weren’t sure about? A shadow? A noise? Something you didn’t want to mention to the police because you couldn’t prove it, or you thought it would sound stupid.”

  “No. Nothing. Nobody.”

  “Where were you before you discovered the body?”

  “In my room.”

  “Was anybody with you?”

  “No.”

  “Half-past five is a funny time to be visiting Kitchener. Was there a reason?”

  She rubbed an index finger along the bottom of her nose. “So I would be there when he woke up. Edward didn’t like to be alone.”

  “Nicholas Beswick said you went into Kitchener’s room at quarter-past one that morning. Is that true?”

  “Poor old Nicky. Yes, it’s true. You want to know something else? I was having sex with Edward, I had been for three months. And to save you the trouble of working it out, he was forty-four years older than me.”

  “You had sex with him at quarter-past one?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you leave?”

  “Isabel and I packed in about half-past. two. Edward was nearly asleep by then anyway.”

  “Why not stay?”

  “Edward snores. Silly, isn’t it? But I’m a light sleeper, as well as being a virtual insomniac. I only need two or three hours’ sleep each night. So out I creep after he’s nodded off, then I get my head down for a while, and I’m back snuggled up beside him when he wakes. He probably knew, but…”

  “So everybody would know that you left him alone for a few hours each night?”

  “Every peeping Tom, yes.”

  “Which of the other students knew about you and Kitchener?”

  “I would say all of them. Even Nicky, though he would never dare talk about it outright.”

  “So it was common knowledge?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the housekeeper and her staff?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs Mayberry knew. You can’t keep secrets from the person who collects your sheets.”

  “Did you wash after you left Kitchener?”

  Rosette sat up straighter. “Pardon me?”

  “Did you wash, take a shower, bathe?”

  “Yes. I had a shower afterwards. I always do.”

  “How long had Isabel Spalvas been having an affair with Kitchener?”

  Rosette gave him a derisive grin, and started to laugh. “I’m sorry. The way you said it. ‘An affair’. Like some Victorian aunt. Rutland really is the back of beyond, isn’t it? Are you married until death do us part, Mr Mandel? Or may I call you Greg? Eleanor seems like quite a spectacular girl, physique-wise, that is. I saw the two of you on the channel newscasts at lunchtime.”

  “I’m happily married, thank you.”

  “And Julia Evans, no less, was at the ceremony. Your bridesmaid.”

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  “No, an observation.”

  “Careful, your lawyer might stop this line of questioning.” Matthew Slater shot Greg a look of undiluted malice. Rosette burst out laughing again.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I can see why they sent for you. Nobody gets off the hook when you’re on their case, do they, Greg?”

  “No. Now, Isabel Spalvas?”

  “She wasn’t having an affair, or whatever else you want to call it, with Edward.”

  “You said she was in his room for sex.”

  “She was there for pleasure, for interest, for self-exploration. I’m not saying they didn’t have sex. They did. She also took some syntho. Perhaps it made it easier for her.”

  “Made what easier?”

  “Sex with Edward. Oh, he was still reasonably capable. But he was sixty-seven, after all. You couldn’t ignore it; not lie back and think of England. She found it difficult with me as well, to start with.”

  “You and Isabel made love?”

  “I’m not sure about love, Greg, darling. But sex, yes. Edward enjoyed watching. She enjoyed it too, eventually, when the syntho was really boosting her. Am I turning you on, Greg?”

  “No.”

  “Really? You surprise me. The first time I made this statement, all the boys in the office found an excuse to listen in.” She cocked her head at Nevin. “Didn’t you, Jonnie darling?”

  Greg caught his mind clogging with fierce embarrassment.

  “Was there any pressure placed on female students to sleep with Kitchener?” he asked.

  “Not if you mean blackmail. Come to bed with me or I kick you out of the Abbey. Edward doesn’t need to, he is… intriguing. Girl students are almost a double bluff. You understand? He tells the world he does. He tells us he wouldn’t dream of it. And there he is, one of the geniuses of the age, complete with wicked reputation. Always there, day in, day out. He had this mockery for convention. He was so very clever at ridiculing any stricture society placed on his life. He makes you examine and challenge your own beliefs.

  That’s why Isabel had joined us, she was probing her own limits, finding out where they lie. You can do that with Edward there to guide you. He made us feel safe, we trusted him. He’d never let us hurt ourselves, not with drugs or sex, or radical politics come to that. He knew what we were capable of, and showed us how to achieve it, intellectually, emotionally, physically. Launde was an incredible experience, spiritual more than anything else.” She shook her head softly, re-emerging from the vortex of reminiscence.

  Greg could perceive how sincere she was when she talked about Kitchener. Fondness for the old guru acted as a subtle reinforcement for the philosophies he had spun out. He was suddenly very curious about Edward Kitchener. How much of this professional dissident ideology had he believed in, all or none?

  “How long had Isabel been taking part in these sessions with you and Kitchener?”

  “Sessions! You have no soul, Greg, darling, no poetry. About a fortnight, I think. As soon as we came back from the New Year break.”

  “Did Nicholas Beswick know that Isabel was becoming involved with Kitchener?”

  Rosette pursed her lips, contrite for once. Her thought currents were subdued. “Oh, dear little Nicky. No, he didn’t know a thing about us until that night. Caught us sneaking down the corridor to Edward, he did. Such a shame. He is quite infatuated with Isabel, did you know that? Now that is authentic love, Romeo and Juliet revisited. Teasing him was such fun, it’s so dreadfully easy. Nicky lacks that cosmopolitan touch necessary to survive adult life, he’s just a country boy at heart. He makes me se
em terribly jaded and old by comparison. Edward was delighted with him, of course.”

  “Why, ‘of course’?”

  “Because people like Nicky are the reason he founded Launde in the first place. Nicky is very intelligent, he’s far smarter than I am. And if the four of you in this room were to add up your IQs, the figure would be less than half of mine. That gives you some idea of what he’s like. But he’s flawed; emotionally retarded, if you like. Edward called it perpetual adolescence. Whatever, Nicky has this terrible trouble relating to other people. And that is what Launde is for, to cure us of our adolescence, realign our thought patterns into sensible maturity. Edward plays the tyrant king to great effect, and the students bond together for mutual protection. You can’t do anything else, survival depends on it. And for all its crudity, the technique works. Even with Nicky, although it was pretty slow going in his case, but there was definitely some progress. When he arrived, Nicky would sooner starve than ask someone to pass him a knife and fork.

  “Then the evening before Edward was killed, Nicky actually answered me back at supper. Me! Edward didn’t stop talking about it for the rest of the evening, he was simply over the moon. Then I went and ballsed it up by getting caught when I went and fetched Isabel out to play. Naughty me.”

  “So Nicholas Beswick would have been on an emotional roller-coaster that night?”

  Rosette’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no you don’t, Greg, darling. You’re not pinning that perverted atrocity on Nicky. He wouldn’t do that. Besides I was there when he came into the room and saw what had been done to Edward. He was in hysterics, worse than me. Go away and harass someone else, Greg. Not Nicky.”

  “And how about you? Were you at all jealous that Kitchener was becoming involved with Isabel?”

  “My, my,” she cooed. “And I thought I was a prime bitch. No, Greg, darling. I wasn’t jealous. But I am disappointed. In you, darling. I thought you would be able to see why not. You should do. If you’re any good, that is. Or is Mindstar like a rock star’s codpiece, pumped up with hot air?”

  It was the tone which keyed him in. Greg concentrated on the shimmering thought currents in front of him, congealed with hauteur, and smug complacency. Something was helping her to recover from the anguish of Kitchener’s death, the shock scars of the psyche were healing too rapidly. When he went deeper, he found her cherishing a brittle triumph. Intuition kicked in. He refocused his espersense, moving it down through her body, feeling the grainy texture of warm cells, a fast surge of blood through veins like velvet pipes, obtuse chemical reactions flared and died all around, nerves flashed like lightning conductors. He left her brain behind, slipping past her throat, neck, breasts, chest, further down.