The Suspect Genome

One — The Dodgy Deal

It was only quarter past nine on that particular Monday morning, but the September sun was already hot enough to soften the tarmac of Oakham's roads. The broad deep-tread tires of Richard Townsend's Mercedes were unaffected by the mildly adhesive quality of the surface, producing a sly purring sound as they crossed the spongy black surface.

Radio Rutland played as he drove. The station was still excited by the news about Byrne Tyler—the celebrity's death was the biggest thing to happen in the area all month. A newscaster was interviewing some detective about the lack of an arrest. The body had been found on Friday, and the police still had nothing.

Richard turned onto the High Street, and the road surface improved noticeably. The heart of the town was thriving again. Local shops were competing with the national brand-name stores that were muscling in on the central real estate, multiplying in the wake of the economic good times that had come to the town. Richard always regretted not having any interests in the new consumerism rush, but he'd been just too late to leap on that gravy train. Real money had been very short in the immediate aftermath of the PSP years, which was when the retail sector began its revival.

He drove into the Pillings Industrial Precinct, an area of small factories and warehouses at the outskirts of the town. Trim allotments down the right hand side of the road were planted with thick banana trees, their clumps of green fruit waving gently in the muggy breeze. The sturdy trunks came to a halt beside a sagging weed-webbed fence that sketched out a jumble of derelict land. All that remained of the factory that once stood there was a litter of shattered bricks and broken concrete footings half glimpsed among the tangle of nettles and rampant vines. A new sign had been pounded into the iron-hard ocher clay, proclaiming it to be Zone 7, and Ready For Renewal, a Rutland Council/Townsend Properties partnership.

Zone 7 was an embarrassment. It was the first site anyone saw when they entered the Pillings Precinct: a ramshackle remnant of the bad old days. The irony being Pillings was actually becoming quite a success story. Most of the original units, twentieth-century factories and builders' merchants, had been refurbished to house viable new businesses, while the contemporary zones, expanding out into the verdant cacao plantations that encircled the town, were sprouting the uniform blank sugar-cube structures of twenty-first-century construction. Seamless weather-resistant composite walls studded with mushroom-like air-conditioning vents, and jet-black solar-cell roofs. Whatever industry was conducted inside, it was securely masked by the standardized multipurpose facades. Even Richard wasn't sure what some of the companies did.

He parked the Merc outside his own offices, a small brick building recently renovated. Colm, his assistant, was already inside, going through the datapackages that had accumulated overnight on his desktop terminal.

“The architect for Zone 31 wants you to visit,” he said as Richard walked in. “There's some problem with the floor reinforcements. And a Mr. Alan O'Hagen would like to see you. He suggested 10:30 this morning.”

Richard paused. “Do I know him?”

Colm consulted his terminal. “We don't have any file on record. He said he may be interested in a zone.”

“Ah.” Richard smiled. “Fine, 10:30.”

It was a typical morning spent juggling data. Builders, suppliers, clients, accountants, local planning officials; they all expected him to clear up the mess they were making of their own jobs. He'd spent a lot of his own money over the last four years, schmoozing and paying off the county and town councillors to get his partnership with the precinct project, and it had paid off. Townsend Properties was currently involved in developing eight of the zones, with architects working on plans for another three. Having the massive Event Horizon corporation open a memox processing facility on Zone 12 a year ago had been a real triumph for the town; other smaller corporations had immediately begun to nose around, eager for sub-contracts. Quite how the council development officers managed to pull off that coup always baffled Richard. He'd never known a supposedly professional team quite as incompetent as the people who worked at Rutland Council. Every job he undertook was besieged by official delays and endless obstructionist revisions.

The man who walked in at 10:30 prompt wasn't quite what Richard had expected. He was in his late fifties, nothing like any of those eager young business types who normally came sniffing around the precinct. Alan O'Hagen wore a gray business suit with a pale purple tie. He had a sense of authority which made Richard automatically straighten up in his chair and reach to adjust his own tie. Even the man's handshake was carefully controlled, an impression of strength held in reserve.

“What can I do for you?” Richard asked as his visitor settled into the leather chair before the desk.

“My company.” Alan O'Hagen held up a silver palmtop cybofax. Its key blinked with a tiny pink light as it squirted a data package into the desktop terminal. Richard scanned the information quickly.

“Firedrake Marketing? I'm afraid I've never heard of it.”

O'Hagen smiled. “No reason you should. It's a small virtual company I own. I trade on-circuit, specializing in albums and multimedia drama games. I have some German software houses signed up, and a couple of African jazz bands who aren't well distributed in Europe. Naturally, I'd like to rectify that.”

“Uh huh.” Richard made an immediate guess about what kind of German software—the end of the PSP hadn't seen a total reversal of censorship in England. “So how does the Pillings Precinct fit in with all this?”

“I want Firedrake to become more than a virtual company. At the moment it consists of a circuit site with a few trial samples you can access, and an order form. I subcontract distribution and delivery to a mail-order company in Peterborough. After their fees, I'm not left with much in the way of profit. What I want to do is build up a distribution arm myself.”

“I see.” Richard made sure he wasn't grinning. It would appear predatory at this point. “And you'd like to build that distribution company here.”

“It's a possibility.”

“A very advantageous one for you. Event Horizon's memox plant would be next door, so there'd be no shortage of crystals, and we do have an excellent rail service to both Peterborough and Leicester. Not to mention a generous start-up tax allowance.”

“Every industrial precinct does, these days,” O'Hagen said. “Corby is offering a flat-rate construction loan for anyone starting on either of their new precincts.”

Richard blanked his irritation at the mention of Corby. He'd lost three clients to their precinct developers in the last six weeks. “You'll find us a competitive match for any other precinct, I assure you.”

“What about construction times?”

“That depends on the size of the operation you're looking for, of course.”

“Nothing extravagant to start with, but I will require a zone with considerable potential for expansion if things take off.”

“As I'm sure they will.” Richard walked over to the precinct map pinned on the wall. “I have several zones I can offer you.”

It took another two hours of cajoling before O'Hagen left. Richard had squirted just about every brochure and data package he'd got into the businessman's cybofax. He'd hate to play the man at poker; no hint of how keen he was had leaked from that impassive face. But the good news was that O'Hagen had invited Richard for dinner that night, suggesting the Lord Nelson restaurant in the Market Square.

After lunch, Richard drove to the courthouse in the town's old castle hall. Jodie Dobson, his solicitor, was waiting for him in the car park. In her mid-thirties, a junior partner in one of the local firms, she was more than capable when it came to corporate legal matters.

“We've got plenty of time,” she said, gesturing to the ancient doors. “The land-registry clerk's only just finished his lunch.”

“Fine.” He paused. “I don't suppose you've heard of a company called Fire-drake?”

“Should I have?”

“Not really.” He waved his cybofax. “I was checking their site this lunchtime. They sell a response formulator for interactives. Once you've plugged into a drama, it'll take your character wherever you want to go inside the arena. The plotlines will reconfigure to incorporate your movements and speech into the story. They're claiming a much better reaction time than other software.”

“Sounds fairly standard to me.”

“Yes, but it's not just for flatscreens, it can handle a total VR immersion. It's fully compatible with all the major multimedia formats; you can supplement it to whatever drama you buy.”

“Why the interest?”

He shrugged and gestured her through the doorway. “I think it could be quite successful.”

The old stone hall had a vaulted ceiling, and whitewashed plaster walls hung with hundreds of horseshoes. Prior to the Warming the hall had been little more than a historical tourist attraction, used only occasionally for a magistrate's court. Then in the aftermath of the seas flooding the Lincolnshire fens, the vast influx of refugees had more than doubled Rutland's population. The hall's legal activities had expanded to become full-time. Modern partitioning had been used to break up the rear of the hall into small office cubicles. Jodie and Richard maneuverd along a narrow corridor between the transparent sound-proofed walls. The Land Registry & Claims cubicle was barely large enough to hold the two of them as well as the clerk.

Jodie had the petition already prepared, and handed over the two memox crystals detailing the case, including the original farmer's title to the land. Richard, as the claimee, had to sign a host of papers verifying the action.

“Any idea when the case will be heard?” he asked.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Townsend.” The clerk's hand fluttered over the pile of memox crystals and paper folders on his desk. “We have over eight hundred ownership cases filed in this court alone. The local PSP Land Rights allocation committee confiscated a lot of property.”

“Yes, I appreciate that, but this is land for a commercial venture which will benefit many people in the town. It'll create jobs, and bring wealth into the area. Surely that warrants some additional attention.”

“I would say yes,” the clerk murmured diplomatically. “But it's not up to me.”

“Nevertheless…I'd be grateful if you could point this out to the powers that be.”

“I'll do what I can.”

When they were back outside in the scorching sunlight Jodie frowned. “That was sailing close to the wind. You don't do backroom deals in a civic office.”

“I'll bear it in mind. And you should remember that we need that leisure complex; your partnership will scoop up a big fee for steering it through the legal stages.”

“I am aware of basic marketplace economics, thank you.”

“Good. There's a lot of new industry moving into town right now. That means wealthy educated people looking for somewhere to relax, and prepared to pay for the privilege. Rutland Water is a fabulous commercial resource, which is tragically underused. Can you believe there's only three hotels on the shore?”

Jodie nudged him softly. He looked around to see a bicycle entering the castle hall grounds. It was Andy Broady peddling heavily, his ruddy young face glistening with sweat. Richard almost laughed out loud. Even in this weather the kibbutzniks still wore their thick dark dungarees.

Andy dismounted and leaned the bike against a wall. It was an ancient contraption of black steel tubes, with a wicker basket on the front of broad handlebars. The County Museum would be proud to possess a specimen like it.

Richard gave him a pleasant nod. Andy glared back furiously. For a moment Richard thought he might stalk over and swing a punch. Eventually, he pulled a bundle of papers out of the basket and made for the hall doors.

“My relocation offer stands,” Richard said. “There's no need for either of us to go through this. It is my land.”

“My father died this morning,” Andy said. His voice was close to choking.

“I'm very sorry to hear that,” Richard said.

“Accident, my arse!”

Richard kept his voice neutral. “I don't understand.”

“Listen, you.” Andy took a pace toward them, his finger raised. “Twenty years he worked that land. He kept the faith and taught it to all of us. God rewarded our labors with enough fruit and crops to feed ourselves. It's our home! We won't give it up.”

“With all respect to your father, God didn't give you that land. The PSP did. They stole it from a family who were farming it a lot longer than twenty years, and didn't pay a penny in compensation. What kind of justice is that?”

“It's ours!” Andy was close to tears. “I've spent my life there.”

Richard nearly said, Time to move on, then, but kept his sarcasm in check. It wouldn't do to get involved in a public fracas with some half-wit farm boy. Besides, the oaf was built like a combine harvester—solid power in a huge squat body. They stared at each other for a moment, then Andy hurried inside, rubbing the crucifix stitched to the front of his dungarees.

“Filing their counter claim, no doubt,” Jodie said. “They'll appeal for post-acquisition compensation, you know. It's what I'd do in their situation.”

“Fat lot of good that'll do them. I have full title.”

“You'll have to let me see the plans for this leisure complex sometime. It must be quite something.”

“It's a work of art. Most aesthetic.”

“You mean, profitable.”

He laughed. “What else?”

Alan O'Hagen had booked a table at the back of the Lord Nelson, where they were afforded some privacy. Richard enjoyed the small restaurant; it had tasteful antique decor, efficient service, and an excellent seafood menu. His ex-wife had always badgered him to take her, but he never had the money in those days. Now she was no longer a burden to him with her absurd middle-class a-fair-day's-work for-a-fair-day's-pay ethic. Nothing worthwhile in this world came fair. The young waitress gave him a respectful smile as he came in. Success was the most succulent dish.

O'Hagen was waiting for him. Richard ordered a bottle of Australian Chardonnay from the wine list, almost the most expensive available. It was unusual for a client to buy him a meal, especially at this stage, and it made him wonder what kind of proposal O'Hagen was going to make.

“I want to take Zone 35,” O'Hagen said. “However, I may have one small problem which I was wondering if you could help me with.”

“Go on,” Richard said. This was the part he enjoyed the most—the part, different every time, which had to be settled to make it all fall into place.

“The industrial unit will cost about half a million New Sterling to build and equip,” O'Hagen said. “Firedrake is a viable concern, but I'm not going to get the capital backing from a bank to build a whole warehouse and mailing outfit from scratch. Not with that to offer as collateral on the deal.”

“Firedrake can't be your only concern, surely?”

“It's not. But the kind of imports I've been dealing with in the past don't lend themselves to close examination. Besides, there's none of that money left.”

“I see.”

O'Hagen leaned over the table. “Look, the thing is this. At the moment Fire-drake has a turnover of about 70,000 New Sterling per year. And that's just with one poxy site and not much advertising. Once my distribution arm is up and running I can expand the product range and the advertising. That'll start to generate enough income to pay off the kind of loan I'll need to get it started. I'm this close.”

“I can see that, but…”

“Every business faces this point in the early years. It's a credibility gap, nothing more. I need the banks to take a favorable look at the proposal, that's all. England's economy is in a high boom stage right now, and it's going to last for a decade at least with this new giga-conductor Event Horizon has delivered. There's so much potential for expansion here, you know that. The banks are desperate for an excuse to invest in our companies.”

“But have you got any kind of collateral you can offer the bank? Something concrete? Like you say, they're fairly flexible.”

“I have one proposition. It's for you.” He leaned in closer. “Become my partner in Firedrake. I'll sell you half of the shares.”

“What?”

“It's simple. With your involvement, the bank is bound to approve the loan application. You're an established businessman; your development company is a success. With that kind of finance behind Firedrake, it couldn't fail.”

“I'm sorry. It's my job to sell you part of the precinct, not the other way round. I'm not a buyer, Mr. O'Hagen.”

“I'm not asking you to buy. I'm even prepared to pay you.”

Richard carefully poured himself some more Chardonnay. “I don't follow.”

“Look, what we're talking about here is credibility, right? I want financial credibility, and that's what I'll pay you for. You take a half share in Firedrake. It's not worth anything, there are only two shares, and they're valued at a pound each. I told you, it's a virtual company. Memory space on a mainframe, that's all. But if you combine its turnover with your company's involvement, we've got a valid application for an expansion loan. And you get another commercial unit built on the precinct, out of which you make a tidy profit. Nor will you be liable for Firedrake if—God forbid—it goes down the tube. The distribution operation will be a subsidiary which I own. There's no risk in it for you.”

Richard hesitated. The idea almost made sense, and some of the arrangements he'd made on other deals were a lot less orthodox. “If I take a share in Firedrake, the banks will see what you're doing. That would help your credibility, and it would ruin mine.”

“Yes. But if you'd taken that half share two years ago they'd be impressed. It would show that you'd been a part of a promising business for a decent period, and were now confident enough in it to expand.”

“Hmm.” Richard sat back and looked into that impassive face. O'Hagen was earnest, but certainly not pleading. “You mentioned payment. What kind of incentive would I have received to loan you my good name for the past two years?”

“I have a painting. It's a McCarthy, worth quite a bit. Not enough to trade in as collateral for a warehouse unit, you understand. But I could loan you that until Firedrake was earning enough to pay you back.”

“How much is a bit?”

“Find the right collector, you should be able to get 20,000 for it.”

Richard weighed it up. Twenty thousand for using his name and reputation to lever a loan from a bank for a deal in which he would profit. And costing one tiny blemish in record-keeping, a one-pound share and two years. To massage that kind of data you didn't even need to be an accountant…let alone a creative one. “I'd want to see Firedrake's accounts before I go any further,” he said cautiously.

For the first time, there was a display of emotion on Alan O'Hagen's face as his lips moved into a small smile. “Come to my office tomorrow. My accountant will go over them with you.”

Thistlemore Wood was a district on Peterborough's western sprawl, part of the industrial expansion which had turned the city into a commercial powerhouse in the post-Warning years. To south was an old park, now hosting an estate of hemispherical apartment blocks, silvery crescents rising up out of the grassland. The road Richard eased the Merc along was lined by closely planted maeosopis trees, their long branches curving into an arboreal arch above him. He had to slow on the edge of Thistlemore because a converter crew was at work on the road. Smoke was venting out of their big remoulder vehicle as it chewed up the cinder flecks the track was made from. An endless sheet of smooth thermo-hardened cellulose was extruded from its rear, a dark protective coating which sealed the raw earth away from pounding tires and searing sunlight. The crew diverted Richard around the vehicle, keeping him off the freshly laid surface. A couple of rickshaws came the other way, their riders clamping cloths over their noses as the smoke gushed around them.

The block where O'Hagen rented office space for Firedrake was eight stories high, its exterior white marble and copper glass. Satellite uplink antennae squatted on the roof inside their weather domes; an indicator of just how much data traffic the building handled. Richard pulled up in the visitors' car park, then took the lift to the sixth floor.

Firedrake had one employee. Apparently she did everything in the office: personal assistant, receptionist, site maintenance, made tea and coffee, handled communications. Like O'Hagen, she wasn't what Richard was expecting, but for very different reasons. She was small, though he quickly redefined that as compact. He didn't think she'd take very kindly to people who called her small. Every look was menacing, as if she were eyeing him up for a fight…a physical one. Her dress had short sleeves, showing arms scuffed with what looked like knife scars, and a tattoo: closed fist gripping a thorn cross, blood dripping.

After he'd given his name she reluctantly pressed her intercom button. “Mr. Townsend to see you,” she growled.

“Thank you, Suzi,” O'Hagen answered. “Send him in, please.”

Her thumb jabbed at a door. “In there.”

Richard went past her and found himself in Alan O'Hagen's office. “That's some secretary you've got there.”

“She's cheap,” O'Hagen replied with a grin. “She's also surprisingly efficient. And I don't get too many unwanted visitors barging in.”

“I can imagine,” Richard muttered.

O'Hagen indicated a woman who was standing at the side of his desk. “My accountant, Mrs. Jane Adams.”

She gave Richard a curt nod. Her appearance was comfortable after the girl outside; she was in her late forties, dressed in a business suit, with white hair tidied in a neat short style.

“I understand you intend to invest in Firedrake,” she said.

“That's what I'm here to decide.”

“Very well.” She gave O'Hagen a disapproving look. “I'm not sure I should be endorsing this kind of action.”

“Jane, neither of us is getting any younger. If Firedrake works out the way we expect we'll have a decent nest-egg to sell to some kombinate or media prince. Hell, even Richard here might buy me out.”

“Let's take it one step at a time, shall we,” Richard said. “If I could see the accounts.”

With one last reluctant look at O'Hagen, Mrs. Adams handed Richard a pair of memox crystals. “They're completely up to date,” she said.

He put the first crystal into the slot on his cybofax and began scrolling down the columns of figures. O'Hagen had been optimistic rather than honest when he said the company's turnover was 70,000. This year was barely over sixty, and the year before scraped in at fifty. But it was an upward trend.

“I've already identified several new software products I'd like Firedrake to promote,” O'Hagen was saying. “I should be able to sign exclusivity rights for the English market on the back of this expansion project.”

“May I see the painting, please?” Richard asked.

“Sure.” O'Hagen picked up a slim kelpboard-wrapped package from behind his desk. Richard had been expecting something larger. This was barely forty centimeters high, thirty wide. He slipped the thin kelpboard from the front. “What is it?” he asked. The painting was mostly sky sliced by a line of white cloud, with the mound of a hill rising out of the lower right corner. Hanging in the air like some bizarre obsidian dagger was an alien spaceship, or possibly an airborne neolithic monument.

“View of a Hill and Clouds,” O'Hagen said contentedly. “Remarkable, isn't it? It's from McCarthy's earlier phase, before he moved from oils to refractive sculpting.”

“I see.” Richard pulled the kelpboard wrapping back on. “I'd like to get it valued.”

“Of course.” O'Hagen smiled.

Richard took the painting to the Sotheby's office in Stamford on his way back from Thistlemore Wood. The assistant was appreciative when Richard told her he wanted it valued for his house-insurance policy. She took her time, checking its authenticity before giving him an estimate. Eighteen thousand New Sterling. Once again Mr. Alan O'Hagen was being financially optimistic. But all things considered, it wasn't a bad price for endorsing the Zone 35 development.

“I think we have an agreement,” he told O'Hagen over the phone the next day.

There was a chuckle from the earpiece. “I thought you'd be able to appreciate a good deal. I'll get the paperwork over to you right away.”

“Very well. I'll notify the precinct's banking consortium that I have another client.”

Suzi turned up mid-afternoon carrying a small leather satchel. She opened it to produce a thin folder. There were two partnership agreement contracts to sign, both dated two years previously; even his signature counter-witness was filled in and dated. Mrs. Adams, he noted.

“It says here my partner in Firedrake is Newton Holdings,” Richard said.

“Yeah. So?”

“I thought it was held by Mr. O'Hagen.”

“Newton belongs to him; it does his imports. You want to call him?”

He couldn't meet her impatient antagonistic stare. “No.” He signed the partnership contracts.

“Mr. O'Hagen said to say you can owe him the pound for the share,” Suzi said. She gathered up one copy of the contract and handed him a share certificate with his name on it: again dated two years ago.

“Tell him that's very generous of him.”

She scowled and marched out of the office. Richard glanced over the certificate again, then locked it and the partnership agreement in the wall safe.

Richard was having breakfast the next morning when the police arrived, hammering so hard on the door he thought they were trying to smash it down. He opened the door wearing just his dressing gown, blinking…partly from confusion at the team of eight armed uniformed officers standing on his front lawn, and partly at the bright morning sunlight.

The person knocking aggressively on his paintwork identified herself as Detective Amanda Patterson, holding her police card out for him to verify.

He didn't bother to show it to his cybofax. “I don't doubt who you are,” he murmured. Three cars were parked on the street outside, their blue lights flashing insistently. Neighbors were pressed up against windows watching the drama. A Globecast camera crew lurked at the end of the drive, pointing their fat black lenses at him.

“Richard Townsend?” the detective demanded.

He put on a smile as polite as circumstances would allow. “Guilty of that, at least.”

“Would you please accompany me to the station, sir. I have some questions for you.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I will arrest you.”

“For what, exactly?”

“Your suspected involvement in the murder of Byrne Tyler.”

Richard stared at her in astonishment, then managed to gather some dignity. “I hate to ask you this in such a public arena.” He indicated the camera crew. “But are you quite sure you have the right house?”

“Oh yes, sir. I have the right house. It's yours.”

“Very well. May I at least get dressed first?”

“Yes, sir. One of my male colleagues will accompany you.”

He gave a grunt of surprise as he realized just how serious she was. “I think I'd like my one phone call now as well.”

“That's America's Miranda rights, sir. But you're certainly free to call a solicitor if you think you require one.”

“I don't require one to establish my innocence,” Richard snapped. “I simply wish to sue you into your grave. You have no idea how much trouble this mistake will bring down on your head.”

Richard suspected the layout of the interview room at Oakham police station was deliberately designed to depress its occupants. Straight psychological assault on the subconscious. Drab light-brown walls shimmered harshly under the glare from the two biolum panels in the ceiling. The gray-steel desk in front of him vibrated softly, a cranky harmonic instigated by the buzzing air-conditioning grille.

He'd been in there for twenty minutes alone, dourly contemplating this ludicrous situation, before the door opened and Jodie Dobson came in.

“About time,” he barked at her. “Can I go now?”

She gave him a sober look. “No, Richard. This isn't some case of mistaken identity. I've been talking to Detective Patterson, and they really do think you had something to do with Byrne Tyler's murder.”

“That's insane! I've never even met him.”

“I know, and I'm sure we can clear it up with a simple interview.”

“I want that Patterson cow sued for doing this to me. They tipped off the news team. I'll have my face plastered all over the media. Do you know what kind of damage that'll do to me? Business is about trust, credibility. I can't believe this! She's ruined five years' hard work in five minutes. It was deliberate and malicious.”

“It's not that bad. Listen, the quicker you're out and cleared, the quicker we can instigate damage limitation.”

“I want her to make a public apology, starting with that news crew that was outside my bloody house.”

“We can probably get that. But you'll need to cooperate. Fully.”

“Fine, bring them on!” He caught the tone in her voice. “What do you mean?”

“They've brought in some kind of specialist they want to sit in on your interview. Greg Mandel, he's a gland psychic.”

Richard hoped his flinch wasn't too visible. There were stories about gland psychics. Nothing a rational adult need concern themselves about, of course. Human psi ability was a strictly scientific field these days, quantified and researched. A bioware endocrine gland implanted in the brain released specific neurohormones to stimulate the ability. But…“Why do they want him to interview me?”

“Help interview you,” Jodie stressed. “Apparently his speciality is sensing emotional states. In other words he'll know if you're lying.”

“So if I just say that I didn't kill this Byrne Tyler, Mandel will know I'm being truthful?”

“That's the way it works.”

“Okay. But I still want Patterson nailed afterward.”

Richard gave Mandel a close look when he entered the interview room. Approaching middle age, but obviously in shape. The man's movements were very…precise moving the chair just so to sit on rather than casually pulling it out from the desk as most people would Richard supposed it was like a measure of confidence and Mandel seemed very self-assured. It was an attitude very similar to Alan O'Hagen's.

Amanda Patterson seated herself beside Mandel, and slotted a couple of matte-black memox crystals into the twin AV recording deck.

“Interview with Richard Townsend,” Patterson said briskly. “Conducted by myself, Detective Patterson, with the assistance of CID advisory specialist Greg Mandel. Mr. Townsend has elected to have his solicitor present.”

“I did not kill Byrne Tyler,” Richard said. He stared at Mandel. “Is that true?”

“In as far as it goes,” Mandel said.

“Thank you!” he sat back and fixed Patterson with a belligerent expression.

“However, I think we need to examine the subject in a little more detail before giving you a completely clean slate,” Mandel said.

“If you must.”

Mandel gave Patterson a small nod. She opened her cybofax and studied the display screen. “Are you are a partner in the Firedrake company, Mr. Townsend?” she asked.

“What?”

“A company called Firedrake, do you own half of the shares?”

“Well, yes. One share, fifty percent. But that's nothing to do with Byrne Tyler. It's a venture with a…a business colleague.”

“Who is that?” Mandel asked.

“Not that it's anything to do with you or this murder enquiry, but his name is Alan O'Hagen.”

“Interesting,” Detective Patterson said. “The other listed shareholder in Fire-drake is Newton Holdings.”

“Well, yes, that's O'Hagen's company.”

“No, Mr. Townsend. According to the companies register, Newton Holdings is owned by Byrne Tyler.”

Richard gave Jodie a desperate look. She frowned.

Detective Patterson consulted her cybofax again. “You've been partners for two years, is that right?”

“I…I've been a partner with Mr. O'Hagen for two years, yes.” He couldn't help the way his eyes glanced at Mandel. The psychic was watching him impassively. “Not Byrne Tyler. I've never met him. Never.”

“Really?” Patterson's tone was highly skeptical. “Have you ever visited the Sotheby's office in Stamford?”

Richard hooked a finger around his shirt collar; the air-conditioning wasn't making any impression on the heat suddenly evaporating off his skin. O'Hagen! O'Hagen had scammed him. But how? He wasn't a fool, he hadn't paid O'Hagen any money, quite the opposite. The painting…Which the police obviously knew about. “Yes, I've been there.”

“Recently?”

“Earlier this week actually. I think you know that, though, don't you? I was having an item of mine valued for insurance purposes.”

“Was that item a painting?” Mandel asked.

“Yes.”

“And didn't you also confirm its authenticity while you were there?”

“I suppose so, the assistant had to make sure it was genuine before she valued it. That's standard.”

“And the painting definitely belongs to you?”

“It does.”

Mandel turned to Patterson. “Well, that's true.”

“Of course it is, I was given it some time ago by Mr. O'Hagen,” Richard said. “It was a gift. He will confirm that.”

“I shall be very interested in talking to this Mr. O'Hagen,” Patterson said. “That's if you can ever produce him for us.” She turned her cybofax around so Richard could see the screen, it held the image of View of a Hill and Clouds. “Is this the painting, Mr. Townsend?”

“Yes it is.”

“For the record, View of a Hill and Clouds by Sean McCarthy belongs to Byrne Tyler. The artist was a friend of the deceased. It was stolen from his apartment, presumably at the same time that he was murdered.”

“No,” Richard hissed. “Look, okay, listen. I'd never even heard of Firedrake until this week. Taking me on as a partner was a way of proving its viability to the banks. O'Hagen wanted a loan from them, that was the only way he could get it. We fixed it to look like I'd been a partner for two years.”

“Richard,” Jodie warned.

“I'm being set up,” he yelled at her. “Can't you see?”

“Set up for what?” Patterson asked; she sounded intrigued.

“Byrne Tyler's murder—that's what I'm in here for, isn't it? For Christ's sake. O'Hagen's rigged this so it looks like I was involved.”

“Why would Mr. O'Hagen want to do that to you?”

“I don't fucking know. I've never met him before.”

“Mr. Townsend.”

Mandel's voice made Richard lurch upright. “Yes?”

“You've never killed anyone yourself, but did you ever pay a man to eliminate somebody for you?”

Richard gaped at the psychic. In his head a panicked voice was yelling oh shit oh shit oh shit. Mandel would be able to hear it, to taste the wretched knowledge. His own shock-induced paralysis was twisting the emotion to an excruciating level. He thought his head was going to burst open from the stress.

Mandel gave him a sad, knowing smile and said: “Guilty.”