The Mandel Files

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “I think so. Hang on.” Vernon started typing on a terminal keyboard, his face resentful.

  Like old times, Greg thought.

  “We ran it; there is no record of any previous police call-out to Launde Abbey. Satisfied?”

  Greg closed his eyes, considering options. “How far back do those records go?”

  “Four years. The station ‘ware was infected with a virus when the PSP fell, the memories were wiped. A lot of stations had the same problem, they were all plugged into the Ministry of Public Order mainframe when the circuit hotrods crashed it. The fallout was pretty severe, they did a lot of damage. And of course the People’s Constables weren’t exactly sticklers for procedure. There was very little in the way of back-up memories. One of the reasons the New Conservatives formed the Inquisitors is because so many records from that time were lost.”

  “And you were transferred to Oakham after the PSP fell, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK, I want you to go around everyone who was stationed at Oakham during the PSP decade, and ask them if they remember anything about Launde Abbey.”

  “I see,” Vernon said in a voice which was excessively polite.

  “Good. I shall be coming into town to interview Beswick again this afternoon. You can tell me what you found then.” He referred to his cybofax. “There is also Beswick’s blood sample.”

  “What about it?”

  “All my file says is that it doesn’t contain any syntho. There are no tabulated results.”

  “So?”

  “Did you run any other drug tests?”

  Vernon started his laborious typing again. “There were some traces of alcohol, that’s all.”

  “Call the lab, I want to know if they checked for anything else, and if so what they found. And even if they did check, I want a full-spectrum analysis run again on both the urine and blood samples today. Tell them to look for scopolamine.”

  “Scopolamine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything else?” The irony hung poised like a scalpel.

  “I need to look at Beswick’s medical records. If you could have them ready for when I come in, please.”

  “Is this official, Greg?”

  “Very.”

  “In connection with the Kitchener murder?”

  “What else?”

  “All right, I’ll phone the lab.” The image blanked out.

  “The first thing he’s going to do is phone the Home Office,” Eleanor said. “Find out if you’re still authorized to shove him around like that.”

  “Yeah,” Greg mumbled. He patted the settee, and she came over.

  “Second thoughts?” she asked. She sat with her legs up on the armrest cushions, back resting against his shoulder.

  “Not just yet.” He put his arm around her. “You do realize we are basing all this on my one tenuous belief that there was some incident in Launde’s past. If it does turn out nothing happened, then all we’ve achieved is to bury Nicholas even further.”

  “You really can’t remember what it was?”

  “No. I’m even starting to question if I did remember anything. It seems so fragile. Maybe it’s me who’s suffering from transient global amnesia.”

  “Not you, my love.”

  “Thanks.” He tapped out a number on the cybofax, and squirted it at the flatscreen.

  “Who are you calling now?”

  “Julia. I want to make sure my Home Office authorization isn’t withdrawn. And then she can request a search through all the national and international commercial news libraries for me, going back say fifteen years just to be on the safe side. See if we can find out what happened at Launde that way.”

  Eleanor giggled. “A search through fifteen years’ worth of every library’s news files?”

  “No messing. She ain’t broke.”

  “She will be after that.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Julia knew she shouldn’t be feeling so exultant, it wasn’t gracious, but to hell with that for one long sweet moment. Things were coming together just dandy. Maybe people were right when they called her a manipulator.

  She was sitting at the head of the table in Wilholm’s study. It was a wonderfully sunny Monday outside. For once the windows were wide open, letting her hear the sound of querulous birdsong, a muggy breeze stirring the loose ends of her hair. She wore a sleeveless champagne cotton blouse and a short aquamarine skirt, dangling her leather sandals right on the end of her toes.

  There were twelve memox AV crystals lying on the glossy tabletop around her terminal, recordings of Jakki Coleman’s show going back six months. Event Horizon’s media research office had compiled them for her.

  Caroline Rothman had delivered them that morning when she brought the usual stack of legal papers which required a signature. She hadn’t said anything as she put them down on the table, but she must have known what they contained. Julia guessed the entire headquarters building was chittering with delight over Jakki Coleman’s audacity, waiting for the inevitable counterstroke. This time they were going to be disappointed. It was too personal for threats of sanctions and financial blackmail screamed down the phone to the channel editor. This time she was going to be adult and subtle. But in the end there was going to be just as much blood spilt, and it wasn’t going to be hers. What better way to start the week?

  Glowing with a strong amber hue in the middle of her terminal’s cube was Jakki Coleman’s bank statement. She could thank Royan for that, his patient tutoring had enabled her to worm her way round Lloyds-Tashoko’s guardian programs last night, splitting their memory cores wide open. Of course, it wasn’t every hacker who had exclusive access to top-grade Event Horizon lightware crunchers to assist in decrypting financial security algorithms. To each their own…

  She hadn’t emptied the account, though, that was far too easy. Besides Lloyds-Tashoko would know it was a hotrod burn as soon as Jakki complained, the money would be refunded, another point added way down the decimals on everyone’s insurance premium. All she wanted was to look.

  The figures burned with cold brilliance. The high-flying finances of a channel superstar laid bare.

  Except we’re not quite so valuable to the channel after all, are we, Jakki darling? Not if that’s all they’re paying you.

  Beside each transaction was the creditor’s code. A standard finance directory search would take care of that. Julia set it up, and watched identities wink into existence alongside the columns. She knew some of them, big-name companies, department stores, travel agencies, hotels; the rest, the unknowns, she plugged into another search program.

  It was interesting to see what was there, and even more interesting to see what wasn’t. Jakki Coleman didn’t buy any clothes, not one single item in the last three years.

  Julia clapped her hands in delight, and slotted the first memox AV into the player deck beside her terminal. Jakki Coleman, six months younger, but looking just as antique, smiled out of the flatscreen above the fireplace. She was wearing a black two-piece suit with a bold mauve and green jungle-print blouse.

  “For that fuller figure,” Julia said to the flatscreen. She studied the style intently-the suit was either a Perain or a Halishan-and loaded a note into a node file, coded JakkiDeath. She moved on to the next show.

  The last show the media office had recorded was the previous Friday’s. There was Jakki in a black and white classical suit with an oversize side-tie. And herself, in her purple blazer, and her long white skirt, and her straw boater, with her hair pleated into a long rope, walking along a line of fit young men in dark red swimming trunks, the team coach introducing her to each of them in turn. And afterwards, sitting at the side of the pool while the squad went through their training routine for her.

  “Dear Julia seems to have regressed to her school uniform today,” Jakki said. “Now I remember why I was so eager to get out of mine after finishing lessons every afternoon.”

  “To get on your back and earn so
me money?” Julia asked the image sweetly. She flicked the AV player deck off, and studied the results of JakkiDeath as they floated through her mind. She hadn’t been able to identify all the makes, of course, but approximately one-third of all the clothes Jakki wore on her show were by Esquiline. A lot of them even had the trim little gold intersecting ellipses emblem showing, a lapel pin, or the buttons.

  Product placement. Jakki’s agent had done a deal with Esquiline.

  She pulled a summary of the company from Event Horizon’s commercial intelligence division’s memory core. Esquiline was a relatively new style house, aiming to follow in the footsteps of Gucci, Armani, and Chanel; with shops in every major English city-two in Peterborough-and just starting to expand on to the Continent.

  Julia got Caroline to place a call to Lavinia Mayer, Esquiline’s managing director, for her. My office calling your office was snooty enough to grab attention, and then there was the added weight of her name as well.

  Lavinia Mayer was in her forties, wearing a lime-green jacket over a ruff-collar snow-white blouse. Her blonde hair was cut stylishly short. The office behind her was vaguely reminiscent of art deco, white and blue marble walls, building-block furniture. Impersonal, Julia thought.

  “Miss Evans, I’m very honoured to have you call us.”

  Julia decided on the idiot rich girl routine, wishing she had some bubble gum to chew just to complete the picture. “Yah, well, I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Oh, good, you see one of my friends was wearing this truly super dress the other day, and they said it was one of yours. So I was thinking, you’re a style house, do you by any chance supply whole wardrobes?”

  Lavinia Mayer wasn’t the complete airhead her image suggested, there was no overt eagerness; oversell was always a tactical error. She did become very still, though. “We can certainly co-ordinate a client’s appearance for them, yes.”

  “Ah, great. Well I’ll tell you what I want. You’ll probably think it’s really silly, someone in my position, but I’ve been so busy this winter I really haven’t had much chance to plan ahead for spring.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable. I watched the roll out of your spaceplane myself. It’s an inspirational machine. The amount of effort you must have put in is awesome.”

  “Yah, it is, not that I ever get any thanks. Everyone thinks it’s the designers and engineers who do all the work.”

  “How preposterous.”

  “Yah, well anyway, the thing is, I’ve got about eighty or ninety engagements coming up in the next four months or so, and I need something to wear for all of them. It would be such a relief to dump the load off on to someone else, preferably a professional. I have so little free time, you see, this way I might just scrabble a little more. It would mean a lot to me.”

  The corners of Lavinia Mayer’s mouth elevated a fraction, the smile a talented undertaker would give a corpse. “Eighty or ninety?”

  “Yah. Problem?”

  “No.” Her voice was very faint.

  “Oh, I’m so glad.” She pushed a twang of excitement into her voice. “Would Esquiline take me on as a client, then?”

  “I will attend to you personally, Miss Evans.”

  “Oh, please, Julia to my friends.”

  She listened to Lavinia Mayer babble on about organizing a select Esquiline team to cater for her, when would it be convenient for them to call, what sort of engagements, did she have a particular look in mind? After a couple of minutes she palmed her off on to Caroline to finalize details and sat back in the chair, rolling one of the meinox AVs in her hands.

  It would be interesting to see just how smart Lavinia Mayer was. The woman would never have clawed her way up to managing director without having some intelligence. An exclusive, contract to clothe Julia Evans ought to be a prize worth killing for; the channel exposure time alone would cost millions if it had to be bought, then there were the socialite wannabes who would slavishly follow her.

  If Jakki Coleman hadn’t been dumped or brought to heel inside of two days, Lavinia Mayer was going to have her dream of world domination torn to shreds right under her pointy over-powdered nose. To be rejected publicly-and it would be very public indeed-by Julia Evans would kill their fledgeling reputation stone dead.

  Jakki would probably try and go somewhere else; after all, she couldn’t afford to buy the haute couture her assumed lifestyle required. Julia would follow her, setting up checkmate after checkmate right across the board.

  There was a subdued knock on the study door. Lucas came in. “Your guest has arrived, ma’am.”

  A warm buzz invaded her belly. “I’ll be right down.” Yes, this was one day where things were truly going right.

  Robin Harvey’s hands traced an intrigued line down the side of her ribcage before coming to rest lightly on her hips. “Try and hold your back straighter as your fingers touch the water,” he instructed. “And stand so that you’re balancing more off your heels.”

  “Like this?” Julia leant back into him. Right out on the threshold of sensitivity she could detect a minute tremor in his fingertips.

  “Not quite that much.” He let go abruptly.

  Julia dived into the water, breaking the surface cleanly.

  Her pool was a large oval affair at the rear of the house, equipped with high boards and a convoluted slide. There was a plentiful supply of colourful beach balls and lios, a wave machine. The surrounding patio had a bar and barbecue area. It was all designed with fun in mind.

  She surfaced and pushed her hair back. Robin Harvey smiled down at her.

  She had noticed him on Wednesday in the England swimrning squad line-up, a strong broad face, wiry blond hair, on edge at the prospect of meeting her. His powerful build, youthfulness-he was eighteen, a year younger than her-and that touch of awkward modesty made for an engaging combination. He was so much more natural than Patrick.

  She had made a point of chatting to him during the training session. His stroke was the butterfly, and he enjoyed diving, though he claimed he wasn’t up to a professional standard.

  “Oh, gosh, I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said guilelessly. “It looks so thrilling on the sportscasts, like ballet in the air. I don’t suppose you could teach me some of the easier ones, could you?” She let a tone of hopefulness creep into her voice at the end. The lonely precious princess not allowed a moment’s enjoyment.

  Turning down such a plaintive request from the team’s sponsor wasn’t a serious option.

  “That was very good,” Robin said as she climbed up the stairs. “You’re a fast learner.”

  I was the Berne under-fifteen schools amateur diving champion. “That’s because I have such a good teacher.”

  His grin was a genuine one. Julia liked it. She was going to enjoy Robin, she decided. At least with swimmers she had the perfect excuse to get ninety per cent of their clothes off right away. That remaining ten per cent ought to provide her with a great deal of fun.

  She skipped off the top step and breathed in deeply. Robin’s gaze slithered helplessly down to the swell of her breasts under the slippery-wet scarlet fabric of her backless one-piece costume. Bikinis always gave too much away, she thought; the male imagination was such a powerful weapon, you just had to know how to turn it against its owner.

  “I’d like to try a back flip,” she said.

  “Uh, sure.”

  After they finished swimming, she showed him round the big conservatory that jutted out from the end of Wilholm’s east wing. The glass annexe had undergone a complete role reversal from its original function. Tinted glass now turned away a lot of the harsh sun’s power, conditioner units whirred constantly, maintaining the air at a cool two degrees celsius. The team contracted to renovate the manor had sunk thermal shields into the earth around the outside, preventing any inward heat seepage. It was a segment cut out of time, immune to the warm years flowing past on the other side of the condensation-
lined glass, home to a few rare examples of England’s aboriginal foliage.

  She led him along a flagstone path between two borders. Young deciduous trees grew out of the rich black soil on either side, their highest branches scratching the sloping glass roof. Streaky traces of hoar frost lingered around their roots.

  Both of them were in thick polo neck sweaters, although Julia still felt the cold pinching her fingers. She rubbed her arms, shaping her mouth into an O and blowing steadily. Her breath formed a thin white ribbon in the air.

  Robin stared at it, fascinated. Then he started blowing.

  “Polar bear breath,” she said, and smiled at him. He looked gorgeous with his face all lit up in delight.

  “I’ve never seen that before,” he said.

  “You must remember some winters, surely?”

  “No. They finished a couple of years before I was born. My parents told me about them, though. How about you?”

  “I grew up in Arizona. But I saw some snow when I was at school in Switzerland. We took a bus trip up into the Alps one day.”

  “Lumps of ice falling out of the sky.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Weird.”

  “It’s not solid, and it’s fun to play in.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He tapped one of the trees. “What’s this one?”

  “A laburnum. It has a lovely yellow flower at the start of summer, they hang in cascades. The seeds are poisonous, though.”

  “Why do you keep this place going? It must cost a fortune.”

  “I can’t get into fine art; it always seems ridiculous paying so much money for a square metre of turgid canvas. And of course that whole scene is riddled with the most pretentious oafs on the planet. I’ll take my beauty neat, thank you.” She pointed at a clump of snowdrops which were pushing up around a cherry tree. “What artist could ever come close to that?”

  The conservatory always affected her this way, inducing a bout of melancholia. It was the timelessness of the trees, especially the oaks and ash, they were all so much more stately than the current usurpers. They made her cares seem lighter, somehow. She was afraid she might be showing too much of her real self to Robin.