The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “You’re pregnant.” The embryo hung in the centre of black and scarlet shadows, a delicate white porcelain sculpture, beautiful, tiny, and tragically fragile.

  “What?” Langley jerked upright.

  “This interview is now over!” Slater cried.

  Rosette slapped her hand against the desk as the detective and the lawyer started to shout at each other. “Not yet!” she yelled. “We haven’t finished yet.”

  Slater bent over her urgently, plucking at the arm of her black jacket. “Miss Harding-Clarke, I must insist you do not continue.”

  “No.” She waved him away. “You are afraid the child gives me a motive. That I can contest Edward’s will on behalf of the baby. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  Slater glanced round at the detectives, his lips pressed together. “That is a likely argument for the prosecution, yes.”

  “My family is richer than Edward. Money is irrelevant to me.”

  “Please!” he implored her.

  “Are we still being recorded?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Nevin said.

  Greg sat perfectly still. He could guess what was coming next. Like she said, she had an IQ well above average.

  “Excellent. Now I’ve been sitting patiently in this squalid filthy little room, and opened my soul to one of the most experienced and highly trained psychics in the country. I haven’t held anything back, and I’ve answered every question put to me. Now, Greg darling, would you please tell everyone here whether I’ve been telling the truth.”

  “You have,” he said, awash with the sense of inevitability.

  “Did I kill Edward?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you!” She stood up. A grinning Sister rose behind her.

  “Rosette?” Greg said.

  She turned, exasperation on her face. “Now what?”

  He pointed casually at the camera. “For the record, could you tell us which of the other students at Launde you slept with, please?”

  Her fists clenched and unclenched, long red nails leaving white imprints on the flesh of her palms. “Cecil,” she said woodenly. “That’s all.”

  “Thank you, Rosette. No more questions.”

  “You used to be Rosette’s lover,” Greg said.

  Cecil Cameron inclined his head reluctantly. “Yes. When she first came to Launde, last October. Talk about impact; we started screwing the day after she arrived.”

  “How long did it last for?”

  “About a month.”

  “Why did it end?”

  He shrugged expansively. “You’ve met Rosette. How long could you put up with her for?”

  Greg heard Vernon chuckling softly behind him. Lisa Collier, who was acting as Cecil’s adviser, tapped on his arm, giving him a disapproving frown. “No opinions,” she murmured.

  “I didn’t even get on with her to start with,” Greg said. “You obviously did.”

  “For a while. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Rosette and me are still good mates. But she’s difficult to please. She thrives on variety, everything has to be fresh for her. Her tolerance threshold is non-existent. We burnt out. I knew it would right from the beginning. It was good while it lasted, mind. I mean, let’s face it, she can take her pick.”

  “Did she pick Kitchener?”

  “No. That was mutual attraction.”

  “What were you doing on Thursday night after supper?”

  “Working on a project of Kitchener’s; I was studying theoretical perturbations in electron orbits.”

  “Were you interfacing with the Abbey’s Bendix lightware cruncher?”

  “Yes. Why, you think I can do that kind of thing in my head?”

  “What time did you stop using the Bendix?”

  “About eleven o’clock.”

  “Could you be more precise, please?”

  “Five past, ten past, something like that.”

  “Was it functioning normally when you were interfacing with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you use the English Telecom datalink to access any ‘ware cores outside the Abbey that night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you use the datanet for anything that night?”

  “No.”

  “What did you do after you stopped work?”

  “Rosette came in, that’s why I stopped. We had a drink and a talk. The other four were in Uri’s room. She doesn’t get on terribly well with Liz, and Nick isn’t exactly enthralling conversation at the best of times.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Who, Nick? Yeah, I don’t mind him. He’s a bit shy, but he’s a sodding genius when it comes to physics. We all knew that.”

  “How long was Rosette with you?”

  “Until after midnight-quarter-past, half-past maybe. She went off to see Kitchener then.” He pulled an indignant face. “What a waste. Old man like that. Her choice, mind.”

  “What about the other three students, how did you get on with them?”

  “Fine. Uri and Liz had been involved for a year. Uri’s great, one of the lads. Liz too, come to that.”

  “And what about Isabel?” Greg watched the conflicting emotional surges corrupt Cecil’s thought currents, the twinges of guilt coupled with an almost paternal urge of protectiveness. Cecil was being pulled apart by indecision.

  “Nice girl. Bit disorientated by Abbey life, but she was coping.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  “Hey! I said we were friends.”

  “Your relationship is something more than an ordinary friendship, though.”

  Cecil looked round at Lisa Collier for guidance.

  “It’s a legitimate question,” she said sourly.

  “You can tell that from my mind?” Cecil asked apprehensively.

  “Yeah.”

  “OK. Well, I meant what I said, mind. We weren’t screwing each other. Wish we had been, she’s got a terrific body. I asked her often enough, but she wasn’t keen. She said that it couldn’t last, not with me leaving at the end of the year, so it would be pointless, she’d only wind up getting hurt. I might have managed to change her mind in the end. Still… I was happy enough playing big brother to her. There weren’t many others she could turn to. I mean all that New Age crap Kitchener spouted about liberating your mind. Christ. The longest chat-up routine ever written. He said anything that would get them into bed with him, and they did as well, two by two. Isabel was confused by it. So we talked, that’s all. Nick would have burst into tears if she’d told him what she was up to with Kitchener. As for Liz and Uri, hell, it’s a miracle if they get out of bed for a meal! And Rosette, well she was with Kitchener.”

  “Did Isabel come and talk with you that night?”

  “No.”

  “You were taking syntho. Why was that?”

  Cecil drummed his kinaware fingers on the desk, black nails producing a tiny click on the smooth surface. “Because it was available. I never took much.”

  “You infused some that night.” Greg found himself staring at the silver-hued hand. Powerful enough to make the butchery easy?

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Rosette brought some in. I was bored. I’d been in the Abbey all day. We didn’t even get out for a swim.”

  “A swim?”

  “Yes, we usually went for a dip in the top lake in the afternoon. Mornings as well, if it was fine. We’re all reasonable swimmers, even Nick.”

  Greg hesitated, that ambiguous notion returned at the mention of the lake. What was it about those three lakes? He hadn’t been able to explain, not even to Eleanor. It was more than intuition, there was memory involved as well. Something had happened at Launde, quite a while ago. For the life of him he couldn’t think what. It was bloody annoying.

  “Was there ever anything unusual about those lakes?” he asked.

  “No, not as far as I know.” Cecil gave Lisa Collier another mistrustful glance. She maintained her cantankerous
expression, eyes not leaving Greg.

  “OK.” Greg gave up. He touched a key on his cybofax, bringing up another page of questions. “Did you ever take any syntho with Isabel?”

  “Once or twice, yes. She was always timid about narcotics. Her background is very middle class.”

  “Could anybody help themselves to Kitchener’s stash?”

  “It wasn’t kept under lock and key. I always asked him, or Rosette. He would have known if someone had been taking it. The only thing he was concerned about was that we didn’t OD.”

  “Tell me what happened when the body was discovered.”

  “Christ. The screams woke me up. That was Rosette. By the time I got into the corridor Nick and Uri had already got there. I… went in to Kitchener’s bedroom… Wish to God I hadn’t. That was one sick fucker who did that, Mr Mandel. I mean seriously fucked.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes. Well. Nick was puking his guts up. Uri was in shock, he just stood there, like he wasn’t seeing it. What do they call it? Thousand-metre stare. I think Rosette had fainted by then. Passed out, swooned, something. She’d stopped screammg, anyway. I got in one look and tried to stop Liz and Isabel from going in.”

  “When did they arrive?”

  “Right after me.”

  “Both together?”

  “God, I don’t know. Yes, more or less.”

  “Did you see any movement in the corridor before you got to Kitchener?”

  “The murderer, you mean? No. If I had, I would have killed him.”

  Lisa Collier gave a censorious cough.

  Cecil looked round at her. “I would have killed him,” he repeated firmly.

  “When did you wash that night?” Greg asked.

  “When did I wash?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About eleven o’clock. I had a shower. My conditioner couldn’t cope with the storm. My room was like a sauna. I couldn’t open the window, not with the rain we had that night.”

  “OK, thanks, Cecil.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me if I did it? I thought that’s why they brought you here.”

  “There’s no need, not a direct question. It wasn’t you.”

  Greg stood up and flexed his arms while they waited for Uri Pabani, shrugging off the stiffness which came from sitting in a chair designed for Martians. The air in the interview room was growing stuffy.

  “Vernon, do you remember anything else ever happening at Launde?” he asked. He just couldn’t ignore the presage-if that’s what it was.

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. Something important enough to be newsworthy, or gossipworthy.” Where did I hear it? Or did I see it? Bugger.

  “Kitchener was in the news once or twice each year with his lectures,” Langley said reasonably. “Universities and societies used to invite him to make addresses. He was famous, after all.”

  “No, not Kitchener, not something he said. An event. Or an incident.” He was annoyed at the amount of petulance creeping into his voice.

  “Kitchener and a girl student?” Nevin suggested. “I mean, he’s had two out of the three staying with him this year. Maybe one of them objected.”

  “Could be,” Greg said. But he knew it wasn’t.

  They both looked at him expectantly.

  “Buggered if I can remember. Can you run a check through your files for me?”

  “Yes.” Langley loaded a note into his cybofax. He had been laying off the dudgeon since Greg started the interviews. More impressed, or unnerved, by his espersense than he was willing to admit. Even Nevin had stopped looking for flaws in everything he said, the opportunities to underline the obvious.

  Progress. Of sorts.

  Edwin Lancaster was representing Uri Pabari. The first of the three defence counsellors who actually looked like a lawyer, to Greg’s mind. A sixty-year-old in a suit and silk waistcoat, pressed white shirt, small neat bow tie. He sat behind Uri, stiffly attentive. Instead of using a cybofax, a paper notebook was balanced on his leg, the tip of his gold-plated Parker biro flicking constantly, producing a minute shorthand.

  Uri gave Greg a curious stare as he settled into the chair, not nearly as apprehensive as Cecil.

  The student had a powerful build. Greg called up the police data profile on the flatscreen. Uri had played rugby for his university, he was also a karate second dan.

  “You were the third into Kitchener’s bedroom, is that right?” Greg asked.

  “Yes. I got there on Nick’s heels.”

  “And prior to that you were with Liz Foxton all evening?”

  “Yes.”

  Greg caught the tension budding in Uri’s mind. “Pleasant evening, was it?”

  Uri tried to smile. “God, that gland of yours is quite something, isn’t it?”

  “So what happened?”

  “We had a row. Early on, before supper. Stupid really.”

  “What was it about?”

  “Kitchener. His syntho habit. Except Liz didn’t think it was a habit. She said… Well, she kind of drinks up that dogma of his. Everything he says is right because he’s the one that says it. Me, I’m a bit more sceptical.” He grinned reflectively. “Kitchenen taught me that. And that evening, things got said that shouldn’t have been, you know how it is.”

  “Do you and Liz quarrel often?”

  “No. That’s what makes it worse when we do. And Liz was already wound up tight over Scotland. She can get a bit political at times, she had a rough ride in the PSP decade.”

  “Didn’t we all,” Greg murmured under his breath. “Is that why there was a scene at supper between you and Kitchener?”

  Uri laughed. “There’s a scene at every meal. God, he was an obstinate old sod.”

  “And afterwards? You made up, you and Liz?”

  “Yes. We’re in love.” He looked at Greg, trying to gauge the reaction he was getting. “Hopefully we’ll get engaged. I was going to do it during the summer, I thought it would be a nice way to leave Launde.”

  “OK, back to Thursday. What happened after supper?”

  “Nick and Isabel came up to my room, and we sat around talking and watching the newscasts. They left around midnight.”

  “When did you wash?”

  Uri’s forehead formed narrow creases as he frowned. “Just before we went to bed. Liz and I had a shower. It was hot that night.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “About half twelve.”

  Greg couldn’t help a small smile. “And what time did you go to sleep?”

  “Just after one. Liz was still watching the newscasts, though. I don’t know what time she fell asleep. But we were both awake at three again.”

  “Who woke who?”

  “Dunno. It just happened, you know.”

  “Was your flatscreen still showing the newscasts?”

  “Er, yeah, I think so. Couldn’t swear to it in court. Wasn’t paying much attention, see?”

  “Were you aware that Rosette was having an affair with Kitchener?”

  Uri gave a mental flinch at Rosette’s name. He wasn’t afraid of her, Greg decided, more like demoralized.

  “Yes,” Uri said. “It was bound to happen, those two.”

  “Oh?”

  “Two of a kind. Intellectually, you know. Didn’t give a stuff for convention.”

  “And did you know about Isabel?”

  Uri scratched his stubble. “The old nocturnal visiting? Yes. Shame that. I blame Rosette more than Kitchener.”

  “Why is that?”

  “She’d enjoy seducing Isabel. It would be a challenge to her.”

  “You liked Kitchener, didn’t you?”

  “He was bloody amazing. I don’t just mean his work. When I came to Launde I was almost as bad as Nick, all meek and tongue-tied. It’s trite, but he really was like a father to me. He brings people out of themselves. God, the stories he told us! That reputation of his was
one hundred per cent earned. He was wicked, disgraceful, terrible. And absolutely beautiflil. Totally unique. The only thing I disagreed about was the syntho, but it didn’t seem to affect his serious thinking. And he’s still pushing at frontiers even now – “ The lively smile on Uri’s face died a tormented death. “Was pushing…” he whispered.

  “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary about the Abbey that night?”

  “Like what?”

  “A visitor.”

  “No-God, I would have told the police if I had!”

  “Yeah. There was no trace of syntho in your blood when the police took a sample.”

  “Well, there wouldn’t be,” Uri said cautiously.

  “Have you ever taken it at Launde?”

  Edwin Lancaster’s gold biro halted, its tip poised a couple of millimetres in the air. “You are asking my client to incriminate himself,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that wasn’t part of the basis for this interview.”

  “We are not interested in bringing charges against anybody concerning past narcotic infusion,” Langley promised. “Providing it is external to this case.”

  “As a police officer, you have a duty to investigate illegal narcotics abuse.”

  “We know the source of syntho at Launde. Kitchener’s vat is in police custody, it cannot be used to supply anyone in future. And we have no desire to prosecute past victims.”

  “Your client has infused syntho at some time,” Greg said.

  “Hey!” Uri protested.

  “I simply wish to know how familiar you are with the narcotics availability at Launde, that’s all,” Greg said. “It’s going to help me a lot.”

  “OK. All right,” Uri held up his hands in placation. “No big deal. Yes, I tried it. Once, OK? One time. Like I told you, it’s not my scene. I don’t like that kind of loss of control, not in myself or other people. Infusing it just confirmed my view. It’s stupid, self-destructive.”