Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘Definitely my victim’s then?’

  ‘Yes, the blood DNA confirms he was a 2North. These are the clothes he was wearing when he was killed, and this is the taxi used to ferry the body about. Ah, here we are—’ She slipped a sheet across the desk.

  Sid looked at the photo of a pair of socks, laid out on a shiny white examination table, with a ruler on one side for scale. They were dark grey, and they’d been singed in patches. He glanced back at Tilly. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The suit came from Hatchar, expensive; but, sadly for us, off-the-peg. That company’s GE-wide including affiliate planets, with two shops in Newcastle, and an additional three franchises in local department stores. Same goes for the shirt, a BrollBross; favoured by executives trans-stellar-wide, nothing distinguishing about it. There are ten outlets in Newcastle alone, as well as a netstore that shifts thousands of shirts a day. So what we have is a standard executive management uniform. Exactly the kind of crap I’d expect a 2North to wear.’

  Sid’s forefinger tapped the photo. ‘And these?’

  ‘Made out of drensi wool,’ Tilly said triumphantly.

  ‘Be kind, pet; I’m really not a fashionista kind of bloke. Why is that unusual?’

  ‘Drensi isn’t actually wool, not off a sheep, anyway. It’s the shredded fibre from the sidestalks of a drensi plant – that grows on St Libra.’

  Sid gave the photo a more interested stare. ‘Away wi’ya?’

  ‘It gets better. Drensi wool is nice, a quality product, feels good to the touch, and reasonably long-lasting. However, it’s not exported. They simply couldn’t make it cost effective because there’s way too much competition and protectionism in the GE to ship any back here. So it’s widely used on St Libra as a sheep-wool alternative, but you won’t find it anywhere else.’

  ‘The victim has been to St Libra.’

  ‘Yes. It’s the only place he could have got those socks.’

  ‘Anything else to substantiate that? Some trace on the suit?’

  ‘No. His suit was cleaned just prior to the murder – we found standard dry cleaning compounds embedded in the weave. His shirt was fresh on that day as far as we can tell, same goes for the underpants and socks. No St Libra spores or traces. It’s just the socks that link him to the planet. Exactly the kind of thing you buy when you’re away from home.’

  ‘Hmm, any halfwit defence barrister would smash that argument apart in front of a jury, but then I’m never going up in front of a jury with it to start with. It’s a lead, and I thank you for that.’

  ‘My pleasure. Our invoice is on its way. Make sure you’re sitting down when you access it.’

  *

  After Tilly had left, Sid read through the whole forensics report on the bundle of clothes from the boot of the taxi. Tilly had been right about most things – the suit and shirt were pricy but commonplace. It was just the socks that gave them a lead. He called Ian and Ralph into his office and put a secure call through to Aldred.

  ‘The suit and shirt are a long shot,’ Sid told them. ‘But I’m going to assign a data specialist to them anyway. I want to build a list of 2Norths who bought that style of suit, and that specific shirt. If any of them bought both then we’ll be getting close.’

  ‘I’ll put Johan to work compiling the lists,’ Ian said. ‘He’s good. We’ll probably need a warrant, though – companies as big as these get precious about handing over lists of customers.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll get the station’s legal office on in,’ Sid agreed. ‘But it’s always going to be a long shot. I’m more interested in the socks. Aldred, can you supply me with a list of your brothers who have visited St Libra in the last year?’

  ‘Not a problem; but I’ll warn you it’s probably about half of us if not more. Northumberland Interstellar management personnel travel through the gateway extensively, certainly at senior level. That’s what the job requires. Even I can’t get out of it.’

  ‘Eliminating half of you from the enquiry would be a big plus factor right now,’ Sid said.

  ‘I understand. You’ll have the list this afternoon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  *

  That was the easy secure call. At one o’clock Sid was back in his office with Ralph, the blue light glowing coldly around the door, and the windows opaque. It wasn’t just Vance Elston calling, the other half of the wallscreen showed Commissioner Monique Passam. She was sitting on some kind of veranda, with big exotic tropical plants just beyond the railing, shimmering a rich emerald in Sirius’s intense light.

  ‘Colonel Elston has been briefing me on the progress of your investigation, Detective,’ she said in her measured tone, making it sound as if Elston had been handing her something toxic.

  The your investigation crack wasn’t lost on Sid. Already she had established clear water between them in case of a poor result. ‘My team has made considerable progress, Commissioner,’ Sid said in an equally expressionless tone. ‘We’ve identified the vehicle used to transport the corpse around town, and we’re backtracking now to locate the actual murder site.’

  ‘How many taxis do you have to backtrack?’

  ‘Two hundred and seven.’

  ‘And how many have you cleared so far?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘That’s not the kind of progress I was anticipating.’

  ‘The local criminal gang who assisted with the disposal of the body are well versed in this kind of activity. Their cover-up was elaborate, which will ultimately allow us to identify them.’

  ‘Are you saying it wasn’t an alien?’

  ‘I’m saying the killer had a lot of help from people very familiar with Newcastle.’

  ‘That disproves nothing,’ Vance said. ‘We’ve had confirmation from the genetic tests run on the 2Norths. They are all who they say they are. No imposter was inserted into Northumberland Interstellar, this isn’t a corporate scam, which was the only viable alternative theory for the motive. Something odd is going on.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Sid said. ‘I never said there wasn’t. And it’s only the A 2Norths we’ve cleared. The victim was definitely on St Libra at some time recently – forensic analysis of his clothes confirms that. And we still have two further branches of the North family to tie down. So far all we have is assurances, nothing solid.’

  ‘Detective,’ Passam said sharply. ‘I am here in Abellia heading the most important trans-stellar mission that the GE has supported in thirty years. I was dining with Brinkelle North herself last night, and you’re still peddling this nonsense that corporate manoeuvring is the cause of all this, specifically Brinkelle’s branch of the family. I cannot accept your wild theory. You have provided no solid evidence, just speculation. Your investigation has practically stalled and you’re casting round to find a scapegoat to absolve your lack of results. A pair of socks does not implicate an entire corporation in murder.’

  ‘I didn’t say they were—’

  ‘I believe what we have here is a difference of perspective, Commissioner, nothing more,’ Elston interjected. ‘Detective Hurst is doing his best in difficult circumstances, but he is by necessity focused on one aspect of this problem: his murder investigation. We have to examine the bigger picture. Something killed Bartram and his household twenty years ago, the same thing that’s just struck again. There’s something odd going on here, and there is a very strong St Libra connection, even Detective Hurst has conceded that.’

  Like bollocks do I, Sid fumed silently.

  ‘Whatever happened in Newcastle is over,’ Elston continued. ‘We have to concentrate on the origin of the problem: the Brogal continent.’

  ‘I agree totally,’ Passam said quickly. ‘The expedition is the correct way to proceed. Newcastle has provided no evidence to refute that.’

  ‘Can I at least continue to investigate the murder of a North?’ Sid snapped.

  Commissioner Passam never faltered. ‘Of course your investigation should continue, it may yet yield something of importance to
us. Colonel Elston, I believe you’re joining us soon?’

  ‘I’m scheduled to fly out on Thursday with my team.’

  ‘Excellent. Detective Hurst, you now have full authority over the investigation. Find that murder site for me.’

  ‘Aye, right.’ And that covers your arse. Bitch!

  Ralph smiled openly when Elston and the Commissioner vanished from the screen.

  ‘What?’ Sid growled.

  ‘You’re getting better at this.’

  ‘Crap on you, too.’

  ‘No, seriously. You did well not throwing something at her.’

  ‘Aye man, she just abandoned the whole investigation because it doesn’t suit her politically. What kind of dipshit moron does that?’

  ‘A fully fledged GE Commissioner, apparently.’

  Sid slumped back in his chair, and managed a weak grin of his own. ‘I am going to laugh my fucking head off when I prove this was a corporate op, I swear. I will announce how pointless her and her precious expedition is to every world in the trans-stellar universe at that media conference.’

  ‘See, she’s motivated you. She does know what she’s doing.’

  ‘Screw you.’

  ‘Not at the distance we’ll be working at. I’m bailing on you too, back to my office. I will need a progress report every day, and I’ll give you some cover with O’Rouke, but if you need more resources, especially on the scale you’ve been burning them up lately, you’ll have to provide a good reason.’

  ‘Aye man, I know.’

  *

  ‘So we just keep chasing down the taxi routes?’ Eva asked that night in Ian’s flat. She’d snagged a pillow again, using it to cushion the floorboards where she was sitting, drinking some green tea Ian had made for her.

  ‘That’s what we’re left with,’ Sid admitted. He opened his beer bottle and slumped down against the wall in the barren lounge. ‘It’s everything now, which is kind of depressing when you think about it. All that work, the biggest investigation for one death that Market Street has ever known, and I’m playing spot-the-taxi in a giant zone virtual. I should bring my kids in, they’re good at that sort of game.’

  Ian was sitting on the kitchenette’s bar, swinging his legs aimlessly as he watched his colleagues. ‘O’Rouke pulled most of the detectives back from Office2 ten minutes after Ralph left this afternoon,’ he told them. ‘I’ve only got Johan and two others left.’

  ‘How many taxis did they clear before they were pulled out?’ Eva asked.

  ‘About seventy-five. Not bad for that bunch of fuck-ups. But they investigated a hundred and twenty. So forty-five were bogus, either with false licence codes or unregistered drivers, or their company claims they weren’t logged out that evening.’

  Sid had to grin at that. ‘Aye, nearly a third operating off-book; that tallies with urban myth. Who wants the taxman grabbing your weekend takings?’

  ‘It’s not all going to be the taxi drivers loading up their secondary accounts,’ Eva said. ‘The gangs will be running courier routes through the city, too.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s going to be our biggest problem,’ Sid said. ‘Sorting the ordinary illegitimates from our bodydump. It just means we really are going to have to backtrack each one individually.’

  ‘Oh crap on it, the taxi we want is going to be the last one we backtrack,’ Eva groaned, tipping her head back onto the wall and closing her eyes. ‘I just know it is. Our luck is that bad.’

  ‘Forty more days of overtime isn’t bad in my book,’ Ian said.

  ‘Haven’t you tuned in to the money story?’ Sid asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I heard in the station that the HDA haven’t paid O’Rouke a single Eurofranc so far.’

  ‘Crap on it! Really?’

  ‘We’ve spent a fortune, half this year’s allocated murder investigation budget so far on this one case, and we’re not even in February yet.’

  Ian gave him an evil grin. ‘You’ve spent it.’ He tipped his beer bottle in salute.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ Eva told him.

  ‘But true,’ Sid sighed. ‘And that doesn’t include getting the zone theatre back up and running. Or the agency invoices that are going to hit at the end of the month.’

  ‘O’Rouke is going to have us on school traffic duty for the rest of the century,’ Eva said. ‘Our luck is truly fucked.’

  ‘Why haven’t the HDA paid?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Different accounting procedure, so they claim. They don’t do instalments. They’ll reimburse us after the investigation is concluded and we file a total cost invoice with them.’

  ‘But . . . even if we get lucky and backtrack the right taxi by the end of the week, that still won’t finish the investigation.’

  ‘Wait,’ Eva said. ‘Do they mean “conclude” as in bring a prosecution or expose the alien? What if we don’t, what if the case gets shunted to inactive status? Does that count as concluded?’

  Sid shrugged broadly. ‘You tell me, pet. It’s a pretty big incentive for Market Street to bring a prosecution. Then there’s the Norths applying their own pressure. I’ll bet that’s contributing to HDA’s ballbuster attitude: everyone wants to keep O’Rouke kicking my arse, apart from the bitch Commissioner.’

  ‘Then we really have got to solve it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So why waste time on bollocks like the suit list?’ Ian said. ‘Everyone knows you use a secondary to buy clothes. None of the 2Norths will be registered as owning that suit and shirt.’

  ‘I know,’ Sid said. ‘But like I said, we have to get official procedure out of the way so we can focus on finding the real culprit. And the genetic test they made the 2Norths undergo was a big help.’

  ‘How?’ a puzzled Eva asked.

  ‘It showed that all the A 2Norths really are 2Norths.’

  ‘Aye.’ An animated Ian clapped his hands together. ‘I’m with you, boss. We’ve got an imposter.’

  ‘Very probably. It was a North dead in the Tyne, simple fact – so one way or another the Norths are in it up to their necks. Either it was a B or C who got discovered working whatever scam is going down, and they got eliminated. That’s unlikely, because Augustine and Aldred are pushing hard for us to find out what did happen. So my guess is that it’s Brinkelle or Constantine behind this, and the body is one of Augustine’s sons. Which means Ian is right, a B or a C has replaced him, they’ve taken over his life.’

  ‘If that’s right,’ Eva said slowly, ‘then our victim has to be a 2North who was quite senior in Northumberland Interstellar, someone who has access to top-level codes or data . . . whatever they’re after.’

  ‘Which ties in nicely with the socks thing,’ Sid said. ‘Aldred said senior management is always travelling through the gateway to St Libra.’

  ‘It has to be Brinkelle behind it,’ Eva said. ‘The murder method was used against her father.’

  ‘That doesn’t make a lot of sense,’ Ian said. ‘Bartram and his people were killed by that mad psycho girl: Tramelo.’

  ‘Misdirection, probably,’ Sid said. ‘Who knows? We have to focus on what we’re solid with. It’s a corporate covert op, made worse because it’s undoubtedly tied in with their old family split. Blood feuds are always the worst kind.’

  ‘But what kind of corporate scam?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Eva said. ‘We can forget about the stupid alien theory and work the case properly now.’ She glanced over to Sid. ‘How’s it going with your gang contact?’

  He pulled a face. ‘I asked the question. We’ve just got to wait for the answer.’

  Thursday 31st January 2143

  ‘Remember, guys, when you go through: look up.’ It was Angela’s best advice, sincere, too. And they took it. Of course they did, she’d invested a lot of time becoming a part of Paresh’s squad. She was virtually one of them now the big day had arrived.

  Oh-seven-hundred-hours – full GE Legion detachment of the St Libra Northern Geogenetic
Expedition to report to base transport pool with full TE (Tropical Environment) kit. Oh-seven-twenty-five – convoy vehicle start and systems check. Oh-seven-thirty – convoy roll out under escort. Transit gateway to St Libra, and proceed to Highcastle Airport. Airlift to commence seventeen-hundred-hours local time.

  They did like their precision orders did the HDA. So Angela wound up sitting in the same old black minibus that was up near the front of their convoy of ten identical minibuses at just after seven thirty as it trundled out of the base and down to the gateway. Corporal Paresh Evitts sat beside her with Private Atyeo in front driving down the slope and through the Kingsway running down the centre of Last Mile, just like last time sixteen days ago. It was her version of the good old days. Except that is for the black sedan at the front of their convoy, the one carrying Colonel Vance Elston.

  He’d been in his cream-coloured TE uniform that morning as they all climbed into their vehicles. The first time she’d seen him in a dress uniform since she’d left Holloway. She didn’t like it – too many bad memories.

  The HDA police car escort which was leading the convoy peeled away onto the off-road just before the bridge-like ramp which led up to the gateway. She gave Paresh a playful nudge and pointed up through the window. He grinned back, and obediently looked up.

  Two weeks of platonic friendship, two weeks of constantly being at her side, two weeks of gym exercise, chugging beer, bitching about HDA brass, about the wait, about the piss-poor briefings, about the inadequate TE kit (‘Told you so’), not being allowed off base at night, crap food in the canteen, cramped conditions, badly run drills. For her, another prison routine, but with decent transnet access. For Paresh, a strange life that mutated him into a cross between ultra-protective big brother and a chaste Victorian suitor. As far as the rest of the squad was concerned, she’d elevated herself to mascot status – one of the team, with the only exception she wasn’t allowed a weapon. Otherwise she could keep up with all their training routines, join in the banter, share the dirty jokes. Trust was the key, and she’d captured it.

  Elston’s car slid through the rigid iridescent wall of grey fog that was the trans-spacial connection. Angela tensed up, and even remembered her own advice. They passed through the gateway.