The Suspect Genome

Three — Degrees of Guilt

Greg managed three hours of sleep before Christine decided it was time to begin another bright new day. His eyes blinked open as her cries began. Nothing in focus, mouth tasted foul, limbs too heavy to move. Classic symptoms—if only it were a hangover, that would mean he'd enjoyed some of last night.

“I'll get her,” Eleanor grumbled.

The duvet was tugged across him as she clambered out of bed and went over to the cot. “Isn't it my turn?” he asked as the timber of the crying changed.

“Oh, who cares?” Eleanor snapped back. “I just want her to shut up.”

He did the brave thing, and kept quiet. In his army days he'd gone without sleep for days at a time during some of the covert missions deep into enemy territory. Oh, to be back in those halcyon times. Christine could teach the Jihad Legion a thing or two about tenacity.

Eleanor started to change their daughter's nappy.

The doorbell rang. Greg knew he'd misheard that. When he squinted, the digital clock just made it into focus: 6:23. The bell went again. He and Eleanor stared at each other.

“Who the hell…?”

Whoever they were, they started knocking.

The hall tiles were cold against his feet as he hopped over them to the front door. He managed to pull his dressing gown shut just before he flicked the lock over and pulled the door open. A young man with broad bull shoulders had his arm raised to knock again.

“What the bloody hell do you want?” Greg yelled. “Do you know what time it is?” Christine was wailing plaintively behind him.

The young man's defiance melted away into mild confusion. “Eleanor lives here doesn't she?”

“Yes.” Greg noticed what the man was wearing, a pair of dark dungarees with a cross stitched on the front, blue wool shirt, sturdy black leather boots. It was his turn for a recoil; he hadn't seen a kibbutznik since the night he faced down Eleanor's father. “Who are you?” He ordered a tiny secretion from his gland, imagining a tiny mushroom squirt of white liquid scudding around his brain, neurohormones soaking into synaptic clefts. Actually, the physiological function was nothing like that; picturing it at all was a psychological quirk that most Mind-star Brigade veterans employed. There's no natural internal part of the human body which can be consciously activated; only muscles, and you can see that happen. So the mind copes by giving itself a picture of animation to explain the onrush of ethereal sensation. The result left him sensing an agitated haze of thoughts, entwined by grief. The man had forced himself to the Mandel farm against all kinds of deep-rooted doubts.

“I'm Andy,” he said it as though puzzled that Greg didn't already know…as though his name explained away everything. “Andy Broady. Eleanor's brother.”

Andy sat in a chair at the kitchen table, uncomfortable despite the cushion. He'd glanced around with a type of jealous surprise at the oak cupboards and tiled work surfaces. Greg followed his gaze with a mild embarrassment. The fittings were only a few years old, and Mrs. Owen came in to clean and help with Christine three times a week; but the room was still a mess. Baby bottles, washed and unwashed were all over the worktops, two linen baskets overflowing with clothes, packets of rusks, jars of puréed apple and other mushy, disgusting-tasting food were stacked in shop bags ready to be put away. Last night's plates and dishes were waiting on top of the dishwasher. Big, rainbow-colored fabric toys underfoot. Half the broad ash table was littered with the financial printouts which Eleanor had generated as she worked through summaries of the citrus grove crop and market sales.

Christine gurgled quietly in Andy's lap, and he looked down at his new niece with guilty surprise. His lips twitched with a tentative smile. He held her with the stiff terror of every bachelor, frightened that he'd drop her, or she'd start crying, or burp, or choke or…

“How old is she?”

“Coming up six months.” Eleanor opened the dishwasher and retrieved three cups.

“She's lovely.”

“Make me an offer, you can take her home with you today.”

Andy's head came up in shock. Greg gave him a reassuring wink. Eleanor filled the cups from the Twinings carton and put them in the microwave. Greg never used to like instant tea, quietly fancying himself as a reasonable cook. These days everything was in convenience units.

Eleanor sat opposite her brother, and gave him a sympathetic look. “All right, what's happened, Andy?”

“Happened?”

“You wouldn't have come here otherwise.”

He nodded reluctantly. “It's dad. There was an accident.”

“Oh, shit.” Eleanor let out a sigh, rubbing at her eyes. “How bad?”

“He was hit by a car. We took him back home, but he can't move. He hurts a lot, and he's hot…like with fever. Coughs blood. Other end, too.”

“And of course he won't go to hospital.”

Andy shook his head, too glum to speak.

She put her hand on his arm, squeezing reassuringly. “Who's looking after him?”

“Paddy, but he's not as good as you were at medicine and such. Don't have real training. Dad didn't want any of us to go to college for courses, not after you left. Said that all outside the kibbutz was an evil place, that it corrupts us.” He gave Greg a nervous glance. “Said that the devil stole you away.”

“I wasn't stolen, Andy; I was driven away. I saw what life can be like if you just have the courage to live it.” Her hand moved to Greg. “And have a little help.”

He kissed the top of her head. Andy's expression hardened.

“I'm not arguing with you Andy,” she said. “But we're all free to make choices. Even you, because I know he didn't ask you to come up here today.”

“So? Will you come and see him?”

“Yes, Andy, I'll come.”

It was a funny kind of day to find the perfect definition of mixed feelings, Greg thought, but now here he was torn between complete disapproval and devotion. Didn't want Eleanor to go anywhere near the kibbutz, let alone back inside, and couldn't leave her to do it alone.

It didn't take long to drive to Egleton. The kibbutz was on the other side of the tiny village, on a flat expanse of land that bordered the road. One side of it was Rutland Water, a shoreline which ironically put only a short stretch of water between them and the Mandel farm's citrus groves on the peninsula. Close in miles, but not in time.

Eleanor had described the kibbutz to him often enough, there were even a few places on the farm where he could just make out their roofs over the top of the coconut palms they'd planted along their section of shore. Even so it came as a surprise. The buildings were all single-story, clumped together in three concentric rings with the church in the center. Long huts that were half house, half barn or stable. Unlike anything else built since the Warming, they didn't have glossy black solar-panel roofs, just flat wooden slates. Brick chimney stacks fumed wisps of gray wood smoke into the clear sky. Beyond the outermost ring, a pair of donkeys were harnessed to a wooden pole, circling a brick well-shaft, turning some incredibly primitive pump.

The fields surrounding the buildings were planted with corn, barley, maize and potatoes; dense clumps of kitchen vegetables in each one made them resemble oversized allotments. Some had fruit trees, small and wizened, with zigzag branches and dark-green glossy leaves. Greg drove the Ranger down a rough dirt track that indicated a boundary. They stopped at a gate in the maze of tall sturdy wooden fences which surrounded the buildings; paddocks and corrals containing goats, donkeys, cows, some elderly horses, llamas. Neither the crops nor the livestock were genetically modified varieties, Greg noticed.

He busied himself unstrapping a sleeping Christine from her baby seat while Eleanor looked around her old home with pursed lips. She grunted abruptly, and pulled the first-aid case from the Ranger's boot, slamming it down. They made quite a spectacle walking to the Broady home through the dried mud which filled the space between the buildings, while dogs barked and giant black turkeys waddled away squawking loudly. Several children ran alongside, giggling and calling to Andy. They seemed well fed, Greg thought, though their clothes were all homemade and patched. The adults still milling among the buildings eyed them suspiciously. Several must have recognized Eleanor; because they nudged each other and traded meaningful looks.

Eleanor didn't even hesitate when she reached the front door. Shoved it open and walked in. Greg and Andy followed. It was a single long room, brick oven with iron doors at one end, bed at the other, with a few simple pieces of furniture between. The walls were hung with pictures of Jesus and Mary. Windows had shutters rather than glass.

A pale figure lay on the bed, covered by a single thin blanket. Greg probably wouldn't have recognized Noel Broady. He'd only seen the old man once before, years ago, the night he met Eleanor. If any two people in the world were destined never to be friends, it was him and Noel.

Now though, that stubborn face was sunken and sweating. Grey hair had thinned out, several days' stubble furred his cheeks and chin, flecked with dry saliva.

His eyes flickered open and he turned his head at the commotion. A dismissive grunt. “I told that boy not to go bother you.”

“Andy's not a boy anymore, father, he's a man who makes his own decisions. If he wants to tell me about you, he can do.”

“Stubborn. Stubborn.” He coughed, his shoulders quaking, and dropped his head back on the thin pillow. “Have you not yet learned God's humility, girl?”

“I respect God in my own way, father.”

“By leaving us. By turning your back on Jesus and your family.” His finger rose to point at Greg. “By lying with that abomination. You live in sin, you will drown in sin.”

“Greg is my husband now, father. You were invited to the wedding.”

“I would not despoil all I have taught my flock by giving you my blessing.”

“Really?” Eleanor put the first-aid case on the floor, and opened it. She took out the diagnostic patch, and applied it to the side of her father's neck. He frowned his disapproval, but didn't resist.

“You have a granddaughter,” she said in a milder tone. She began running a handheld deep-scan sensor along his arms, switching to his ribcage. A picture of his skeleton built up in the cube of her Event Horizon laptop terminal.

Noel's weak gaze moved to the bundle riding in Greg's papoose; for a moment surprise and a lonely smile lifted the exhaustion from his face.

“She's called Christine,” Greg said, moving closer so he could see. Christine stirred, yawning, her little arms wiggling about.

“She looks handsome, a good strong child. I will pray for her.” Talking was a big effort for him, the words wheezing out. He coughed again, dabbing a pink-stained handkerchief to his lips.

Eleanor took a breath, consulting the terminal cube again. Greg didn't need his gland to see how worried she was.

“Dad, you have to go to hospital.”

“No.”

“You've got broken bones, and there's a lot of internal damage, bleeding. You have to go.”

“If God calls me, then I will go to Him. All things are written, all lives decreed.”

“God gave us the knowledge to save ourselves…that's why we've got doctors and medicine. They're his gifts—are you going to throw them back in his face?”

“How well I remember these arguments. Always questioning and testing, you were. There are even some nights when I miss them.” Noel gave her a thin smile. “How quickly you forget your scriptures. It was the serpent who gave us knowledge.”

“Dad, please. It's really bad. I can't fix this sort of damage. You have to go to hospital. And quickly.”

“I will not. Do not ask me again.”

“Andy?” Eleanor appealed.

“Your brother's faith is strong, unlike yours. He respects all we have achieved, all we have built. Ours is a simple life, my dearest Eleanor. We live, and we believe. That is all. It is sufficient for any man. Everything else—this fast, plastic, electronic existence you have chosen—is the road to your own destruction. You can learn no values from it. It teaches you no respect for His glory.”

“I value your life.”

“As do I. And I have lived it true to myself. Would you take that dignity from me, even now? Would you punish me with your chemicals and mutilate me with your surgeon's laser scalpels?”

She turned to Greg, miserable and helpless. He put his arm around her, holding her tight. Noel was badly wrong about his own son, Greg sensed. Andy was desperate to intervene. There was a layer of fear and uncertainty running through his mind that was struggling to rise and express itself, held in check only by ingrained obedience. When he let his perception expand, Greg could feel a similar anxiety suffusing the entire kibbutz. It wasn't just shock and worry that their leader was harmed; some other affliction was gnawing at them.

“Well, I'm giving you some treatment anyway,” Eleanor said defiantly. She bent down to the first-aid case, and began selecting vials for the infuser. “You can't run away from me.”

Noel lay back, a degree of contentment showing. “The absence of pain is a strong temptation. I will succumb and pay my penance later.”

Christine woke up and began her usual gurgle of interest at the world all around. “I'll take her out,” Greg said. “Andy, could you give me a hand.”

Andy gave his father an uncertain glance. Noel nodded permission.

Outside, Greg turned so that Christine was shielded from the bright rising sun. The kibbutz had resumed its normal routine of activity, interest in the visitors discarded. He looked across the collection of worn buildings with a kind of annoyed bemusement. Ten years of his life had been spent in active rebellion against an oppressive government, a decade of pain and death and blood so that people could once again have a chance to gather some dignity and improve their lives. And here on his own doorstep this group strove to return to medievalism at its worst, burdened by everlasting manual labor and in thrall to evangelical priests who could never accept anyone else was even entitled to a different point of view. A community where progress is evil.

The irony made him smile—something he would never have done before meeting Eleanor. A freedom fighter (now, anyway—after all, they were the ones writing the history files) appalled by the use to which his gift of freedom had been put. People…they're such a pain in the arse.

“He's gonna die, isn't he?”

Greg bounced Christine about, enjoying her happy grin at the motion. “Yes, Andy, I think he is.” The young man knew it anyway, just needed to be told by someone else. As if saying it would make it so, would make it his fault.

“I can't believe it. Not him. He's so strong…where it counts, you know.”

“Yeah, I know it. I had to face him down once. Toughest fight in my life.”

“That's my father.” Andy was on the point of tears.

“What happened?” Greg scanned the kibbutz again. “There's no cars here, no traffic.”

Andy's arm was raised, pointing away over the fields toward the road. “There. We found him over there. Helped carry him back myself.”

“Can you show me, please?”

They tramped over the sun-baked mud tracks, moving along the side of the tall fences, a long winding route. Andy was quiet as they walked. Nervous, Greg assumed, after years of being warned of the demon who had captured his big sister.

“This is where we found him,” Andy said eventually.

They were on a stretch of track running between two of the fences. Two hundred meters away toward Oakham was a gate which opened onto the tiny road linking Egleton with the A6003: a hundred meters in the other direction it led out into a paddock with other tracks and footpaths spreading off over the kibbutz land, a regular motorway intersection.

Greg knelt down beside the fence where Andy indicated. A herd of cattle on the other side watched them idly, chewing on the few blades of grass they could find amid the buttercups. The three lower bars of the fence were splintered, bowing inward; and they were thick timber. It had taken a lot of force to cause that much damage. They had some short paint streaks along them, dark blue; a dusting of chrome flakes lay on the mud. Greg stood and tried to work out the angle of the impact. The car or whatever would have had to veer very sharply to dint the fence in such a fashion. It wasn't as though it would be swerving to avoid oncoming traffic.

“Was he right up against the fence?” Greg asked.

“Yeah, almost underneath it when we found him.”

“Did he say what happened?”

“Not much. Just that the car was big, and it had its headlights on full. Then it hit him, he got trapped between it and the fence.”

“Headlights? Was it nighttime?”

“No. It was early evening, still light.”

“Did anyone else see it happen?”

“No. We started searching when he didn't turn up for evening chapel. It was dark by then; didn't find him till after ten.”

“What about the car?” Greg indicated the gate onto the road. “It must have come from that direction, where was it going?”

“Don't know. Didn't come to us; haven't had no visitors for a while. We're the only ones that use this bit of track. It's the quickest way out to the road.”

“What do you use on the road?”

“We've got bicycles. And a cart; horse pulls it to market most days. We sell vegetables and eggs. People still like fresh food instead of that chemical convenience packet rubbish.”

“Okay, so the car must have reversed away and got back onto the road afterward. So was your father on a bike?”

“No.” Andy shook his head ruefully. “He didn't even like them. Said: God gave us feet, didn't he? He always walked into town.”

“Do you know what he was doing in town that day?”

“Gone to see the solicitor.”

“What the hell did Noel want with a solicitor?”

“It's a bad business been happening here. A man came a month or so back. Said he wanted to build a leisure complex on the shore, right where we are. He offered us money, said that it wasn't really our land anyway and he'd help us find somewhere else to live. What kind of a man is that to disrespect us so? We built this place. It's ours by any law that's just and true.”

“Right,” Greg said. Now probably wasn't the best time to lecture Andy on the kind of abuses which the local PSP Land Rights committees had perpetrated against private landowners. Nevertheless, expelling a farmer from his land so it could be handed over to a tribe of Bible-thumpers was a minor violation compared to some of the practices he'd heard of. The Party had been overthrown in one final night of mass civil disobedience and well-planned acts of destruction by underground groups, but the problems it had created hadn't gone with it. “So what did Noel want with a solicitor?”

“He kept coming back, that man, after we said we wouldn't go. Said he'd have us evicted like so many cattle. Said everyone around here would be glad to see us go, that we were Party, so we'd best make it easy for ourselves. Dad wasn't having none of that. We have rights, he said. He went and found a solicitor who'd help us. Seeing as how we'd been here so long, we're entitled to appeal to the court for a ruling of post-acquisition compensation. Means we'd have to pay the farmer whose land it was. But that way we wouldn't have to leave. It would cost us plenty. We'd have to work hard to raise that much money, but we ain't afraid of hard work.”

“I see.” Greg looked down at the broken sections of fence, understanding now what had really happened here. “What is this man's name, the one who wants you off?”

“Richard Townsend, he's a property developer lives in Oakham.”

“You think Townsend had my father run down?” Eleanor asked. They were sitting out on the farmhouse's newly laid patio, looking across the southern branch of Rutland Water. Citrus groves covered the peninsula's slope on both sides of the house's grounds, the young trees fluttering their silky verdant leaves in the breeze. Phalanxes of swans and signets glided past on the dark water, their serenity only occasionally broken by a speeding windsurfer.

“It's the obvious conclusion,” Greg said bitterly. “Noel was the center of opposition, the one they all follow. Without him they might just keep the legal challenge going but their heart won't be in it. For all his flaws, he was bloody charismatic.”

“You mean intimidating.”

“Call it what you like; he was the one they looked to. And now…”

She closed her eyes, shuddering. “He won't last another day, Greg. I don't think it would make any difference now, even if we could get him into hospital.”

She hadn't talked much about her father's condition since they had arrived back at the farmhouse at midday. The morning's events were taking time to assimilate. She had done what she could with the medicines in the first-aid kit, easing the worst of his pain. He had pretended indifference when she said she would return later. It didn't convince anyone. Her ambivalence was a long way from being resolved. It had been a very wide rift.

“Townsend won't have done it personally,” Greg said. “There'll be a perfect alibi with plenty of witnesses while whoever he hired drove the car. But he won't be able to hide guilt from me during the interview.”

“That won't work, darling,” she said sadly. “It still takes a lot for a jury to be convinced by a psychic's evidence. And you're hardly impartial in this case. A novice barrister on her first case would have you thrown out of court.”

“Okay. I accept that. We need some solid evidence to convict him.”

“Where are you going to get that from? You don't even really know for certain that it was Townsend. You can hardly interrogate him privately and then tell the police what he's done and ask them to follow it up.”

“The car is evidence,” Greg said. “Andy called in an official hit-and-run report from Egleton's phonebox. I'll start with that.”

Greg left Eleanor at the kibbutz next morning, and drove on into Oakham. It had been a couple of years since he'd visited the police station. The desk sergeant reacted with a stoicism verging on contempt when Greg asked him what progress had been made on the hit-and-run. “I'll check the file for you, but don't expect too much.”

“The man it hit is my father-in-law. He's going to die from the injuries.”

A squirt of information colored the sergeant's desktop terminal cube with flecks of light. “Sorry, sir. Whoever reported the incident didn't know what the vehicle was, nor when it happened. If we don't have anything to go on, we can't make enquiries. There's nothing to ask.”

“Did anyone even go out there and check? He's dying! The driver of that vehicle has killed him.”

The sergeant did manage to look reasonably embarrassed. “The nature of the injuries wasn't disclosed at the time, sir. It's not down here.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“The case would have been graded accordingly.”

“Graded? What the fuck is graded?”

“We would have given the incident a higher priority, sir.”

Greg bit back on his immediate reply. Shouting at the ranks wasn't going to solve anything—it was the generals not the squaddies who decide the campaign strategy. He paused, took a breath. “What about forensic? There are all sorts of marks out there, even some paint off the bodywork. Any decent forensic lab would be able to match the paint type with the manufacturer, at least get an idea of what kind of vehicle they were driving. Then you could start asking if anyone saw it.”

“Yes, sir. Was the gentleman insured?”

“For what?”

“Crime investigation finance. It's becoming more necessary these days. Most companies offer it as part of their employment package along with health cover, pension, housing guarantee, that kind of thing. You see, the sort of investigation you're talking about launching will absorb a lot of our resources. The Rutland force has only limited civic funds. To be honest with you, successfully tracing the driver would be a long shot. The chief has to focus his budget on areas which have a good probability of bringing positive results.”

“I don't believe this. He's a kibbutznik, he's not employed by some big-shot corporation. The only money they have comes from selling eggs at the market. But that doesn't mean he's not a citizen; he's entitled to time and attention from the police.”

“Sorry, sir. I'm not trying to discourage you, just telling you the way it is these days. I don't want you to leave here with false hopes of us being able to launch a manhunt for the driver. And even if we did, a hit-and-run incident without a witness…” He shook his head. “Just about zero conviction rate.”

“I can pay,” Greg said. He pulled out his platinum Event Horizon card. “Just show me what I have to sign, and get that bloody forensic team out there.”

“It's Sunday, sir. The assigned case officer won't be in until tomorrow, I'm afraid. You'll have to speak with him about upgrading the investigation status.”

Greg wondered if they would have the resources to investigate a member of the public punching an officer inside the station. Tempting to find out.

“There are private forensic laboratories, sir,” the desk sergeant said. “We have an approved list if you'd like to use one. Some of them are very good.”

It was no good shouting. Greg could see he was trying to be helpful, after a fashion. At which point Amanda Patterson called out his name.

Greg put the two pints of Ruddles County down on the table. Mike Wilson gave his glass a wary look.

“Cheers,” Greg said. After they had got back from the Sullivan bungalow, he had waited outside the police station until the insurance agent had come out, then invited him for a quiet drink at the Wheat sheaf pub just around the corner. So far, Wilson was curious enough not to offer resistance, but he was clearly worried.

“You can relax,” Greg told him. “I used to be a private eye. I've worked on corporate cases before. I understand the need for discretion at times like this.”

“Uh huh.” Mike took a sip of his beer.

“I know who did it.” From a psychic perspective, the jolt of surprise flashing into Wilson's mind was quite amusing. He only just managed to avoid it triggering a physical jerk. That spoke of good self-control. Greg wasn't surprised at that, it confirmed several things he had speculated about the man.

“Who? We didn't see anyone who matched that bloody genome image.”

Greg folded his arms and smiled. “You don't need to know.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I don't want them convicted.”

“I see.”

“Which is the same reason you were given this investigation, isn't it? Keep an eye on Amanda. Wise move by your company. I worked with her before. She's a smart girl. And a very good police officer. She won't make compromises.”

“And you will?”

“When it suits me. And this certainly does.”

“Crescent Insurance would be happy to consider an adequate remuneration for the time you've spent advising Oakham CID.”

“You should research more. I'm already rich.”

“What then?”

“Tell me what line of investigation Crescent wants avoiding, and I'll see if we can help each other.”

Wilson took a slow sip, and eased back into his chair. “Okay. I'm actually on secondment to Crescent; my employer is Hothouse.”

“Byrne Tyler's agency?”

“Yeah. Look, showbiz is not pretty, okay? We deal with images, illusions. That's what we sell: characters larger than life. To the general public, Byrne is some hot young chunk of meat with a six-pack stomach and the devil's smile. In the dramas all he's got to do is show off that body in some tough action sequences and blow away bad guys with his big gun. In real life we portray him as an It Guy; he goes to all the best parties, he dates the most beautiful actresses and models, he's friends with the older, real celebrities. That's what we're promoting here, the more he's in the 'casts, the more 'castworthy he is. Doesn't matter if it's private-life gossip, or reviews for his latest pile of interactive shit. We put him out there and shine a light on him for everyone to idolize and buy every tie-in funny-colored chocolate bar we can slam at them. We make money, and Byrne gets a bigger apartment and a better nose job. Unfortunately, in reality, he's some half-wit sink-estate boy from Walthamstow we uprooted and dropped in front of the cameras. That's a shock to anyone's system. Certainly for him it was. He couldn't tell where the image stopped and life began. He's got a syntho habit, a dream punch habit, a sweet&sour habit…he even uses crack, for Christ's sake; he can barely remember his one-word catch-phrase, and his autograph isn't in joined-up writing. What I'm saying is, he needs—needed—a lot of agency management and handling to cope with his new existence, right down to potty-training level.”

“You didn't like him.”

“I've never met him. Like I said, this is showbusiness, with the emphasis on business. Byrne Tyler was an investment on Hothouse's part. And it was starting to go ripe. A year ago he was living on credit, and his career was nose-diving. Well, even that's okay. It's not exactly the first time that's happened to a celeb. We know how to handle that. We got him partway through detox therapy, paired him up with the gorgeous Tamzin, and together they're riding high. Bingo, we're back on track, he's being offered new interactives, she's getting runway assignments for the bigger couture houses.”

“So you wrote a happy ending. So what's the problem?”

“The problem is the middle of the story. When his cash was low and no studio would touch him, he earned his living the oldest way you can. All those trophy wives who's husbands are so decrepit they can't even take Laynon anymore. Single trust-fund babes, except at their age they aren't babes any longer. Even supermodels who wanted a serious no-comebacks, no-involvement shagging one night. Tyler serviced them all.”

“Let me guess. You pimped him.”

“Our investment was going negative. We pointed people in the right direction. Nobody got hurt. It paid off.”

“Except now he's dead. And he recorded all those women on that big waterbed of his.”

“Stupid little prick.” Wilson nodded remorsefully. “Was it one of them, some husband or boyfriend who found out?”

“No. You're in the clear.”

“Hardly. Amanda Patterson is going to start phoning around that goddamn list he left behind. Look, he beds twenty rich and famous girls, and he's a superstud, a hero to the lads. Thirty and he's unbelievable…how the hell did he manage that? Fifty of the richest women in Europe night after night, and damn right nobody'll believe it can happen. There's going to be rumors; the media will start scratching round. We won't be able to keep a lid on it.”

“Perfect,” Greg said. “I can deliver someone who can take the rap for Tyler's death. Amanda will stop phoning your list, and go after him instead. The Tyler case will be closed, and the women involved can quietly apply to the police for the recordings to be wiped under the privacy act.”

“Who is it?”

“A nasty little man called Richard Townsend.”

“Never heard of him.”

“No reason you should. But I'm going to need a motive to link him in with Tyler. What other failings did our late celebrity have?”

Gabriel Thompson was one of Greg's oldest friends, from his army days. Morgan Walshaw he knew pretty well, handling security for the biggest company there was: Event Horizon. Trustworthy and competent at exactly the level Greg needed. It helped that the two of them had taken a shine to each other after meeting on one of Greg's cases. They'd moved in together a few months later, living in a grand old terrace house in Stamford.

Greg phoned them as soon as he got back from his drink with Mike Wilson. They arrived together at the farmhouse as the sun was sinking behind Berry but spinney on the far shore. Gabriel helped with Christine's bath time, while Greg and Morgan tackled the menu from the Chinese take-away in Mill Street.

They wound up sitting in the conservatory with the cartons from the take-away on the big cedar table. Pink light drained away from the clouds bridging the horizon leaving a quiescent gloaming in its wake.

“I need a safeguard before I agree to this,” Morgan said after Greg had finished talking. “I appreciate there's a lot of circumstantial evidence that Townsend had Noel Broady run down, but we don't know for certain.”

“I'll get myself in on the preliminary interview,” Greg said. “If I can see he's guilty of paying someone to run Noel over, will that be enough for you?”

“Yes,” Morgan said. “I'll accept your word.”

“If he's not?” Gabriel asked archly.

“Then we collapse the deal. It'll leave a nasty smell, but at least he walks away.”

“Okay,” she said. “So what's the link between him and Tyler?”

“Hothouse set up a virtual company for Tyler to sell his action dramas and interactives. I think there's even a best-of compilation from Marina Days.”

“Compelling stuff,” Gabriel muttered.

“Yeah, anyway. This company is called Firedrake, and Mike Wilson has agreed to sell Hothouse's half share. It's only a pound New Sterling, so they don't exactly lose out. All we have to do is convince Townsend to buy it, and back-date the agreement.”

“Why?” Morgan asked.

“Tyler wasn't quite as stupid as you'd think. He was using the site to sell bootleg memox crystals of his own stuff. Any orders you place on the Firedrake site are supposed to go to the distribution company that's contracted to deal with all Hothouse's clients. Tyler, the clever little sod, rigged the site so that two thirds of the orders are redirected to a bootlegging operation that he's got an arrangement with. That way, instead of getting his half-percent royalty payment from the cover price of the genuine crystal, he gets fifty percent of the price from the bootleg. Cash only, non-taxable. Hothouse found out about it a month ago, and confronted Tyler. He claimed he knew nothing, and that some hotrod had hacked into the site and loaded the diversion instructions. As his engagement to Tamzin was starting to produce results, Hothouse overlooked it, and sorted the site out.”

“So whoever his partner in Firedrake is, they're being ripped off by Tyler,” Eleanor said. “Anyone examining the Firedrake site order log and comparing it to the legitimate distribution company's orders will see the missing sixty percent straight away. The partner in Firedrake will have a justifiable grudge against Tyler.”

“What that partner will do is have Tyler's apartment broken into, and steal a painting that is of equal worth to the missing money. Unfortunately, Tyler was at home when the burglary happened, there was a brief struggle, and he got pushed downstairs. That makes whoever received the stolen painting an accessory to murder. It'll be the physical proof Amanda needs to nail him.”

“Can you get us a painting out of the apartment?” Gabriel asked.

“I think so,” Greg said. “I reviewed the Macmillan art encyclopedia database. We got lucky, the most valuable piece Tyler owns is also the smallest one. It should be easy enough to lift it.”

“When do you want to start?” Morgan asked.

“Right away. See if you can get an appointment with Townsend tomorrow morning. Gabriel, you're going to be the accountant. You'll have to hire an office for us in Peterborough. It needs to be ready by Tuesday at the latest. Suzi will give you a hand.”

“Suzi? You're kidding!”

“No way. I'm going to bring her in as your company's secretary. She'll be perfect as the courier for the swap—Townsend won't argue with her.”

“Jesus wept. Okay, if you say so.”

“What about the Firedrake site?” Morgan asked. “Won't Townsend be suspicious of me marketing the interactives of a dead celebrity?”

“You won't be selling Tyler's products,” Greg said. “I've got Royan designing a completely new architecture for us; from midnight, Firedrake will be selling software products and obscure music acts. Once Townsend has bought in, we'll change it back.”

Gabriel gave her glass of beer a quizzical glance, then smiled softly. “Sounds good to me.”

Greg had been right about Amanda Patterson—she was a first-rate detective. As soon as Hugh Snell confirmed the McCarthy was a fake she redirected her team's effort to produce maximum results. Every art house and auctioneer in the country was squirted an immediate notification about the painting, and CID staff were told to get in touch with known fences and dealers. A reward was mentioned.

Of course, as Townsend was blissfully unaware he had anything to hide, Sotheby's in Stamford got back to Amanda less than two hours later. Richard Townsend was identified.

“Not the person who actually pushed Tyler,” she said regretfully, as she compared his picture with the genome visualization. An undercover team was assigned to keep Townsend under surveillance.

Greg watched as she turned her team to establishing the link between Tyler and Townsend. It was the accountant who tracked down the partnership in Fire-drake. After that it was plain sailing. The accountant worked well with Alison, running analysis programs through the virtual company's records. The distribution company made their order logs available.

By ten o'clock that evening they had it all worked out. Byrne Tyler was ripping off his Firedrake partner Townsend, who discovered what was happening. Knowing the money would never be paid over, a burglar was hired for a custom theft. But there had been a flaw. Byrne Tyler was awake when the break-in occurred. There must have been a struggle.

Amanda took the case to Vernon at quarter past ten. He reviewed it, and authorized the arrest warrant.

Throughout the interview with Townsend, Greg had felt as if he was the one on trial. Not so far from the truth. He was the one who had brought them all together. The strain was twisting him up inside, having to wait patiently while Amanda asked questions which Townsend didn't understand, let alone have answers for. Finally, he could ask the one question that counted.

Physically, Townsend froze up. His hands gripped the armrests, sweat glistened on his brow as his mouth hung open. In his mind, horror and fright rose like ghouls to contaminate every thought.

“Guilty,” Greg said. He hoped he hadn't sagged at the release of his own tension.

“Thank you, Mr. Mandel,” Amanda said.

It was the tone which alarmed Greg. He hadn't been paying attention to the detective. Now he could sense the doubts rippling through her mind. She held his gaze steadily, and said: “I think we both need to take a break now. No doubt you'd like to consult with your solicitor, Mr. Townsend. Interview suspended.” She switched the AV deck off. “Greg, a word, please.”

“Sure.”

As they left the interview room a frantic Townsend was whispering furiously to Jodie Dobson. Amanda went straight downstairs and out into the station's car park. She rounded on Greg. “What the hell is going on?”

“You were right about him, my question confirmed that.”

“Oh, bollocks, Greg. He doesn't have a clue what's going on.”

“He's guilty. I swear it, Amanda.”

“Yeah?” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

“I thought they were illegal?”

“No. That's a common mistake. Usage just prohibits you from claiming National Health Service treatment. If you choose to make yourself ill, don't expect the state to pay to make you better. So given that smoking actually makes it illegal to go to an NHS hospital, it's easy to see how confused people can get over the actual wording of the law. And it suits the government to encourage that confusion.”

“Are we talking in metaphors here?”

“I don't know, Greg. I don't know what's metaphor, what's confusion, and what's truth. But I'm bloody sure Townsend didn't have anything to do with Tyler's death. Detective's instinct, remember.”

“The evidence points straight at him.”

“Yes. With amazing clarity. Funny how that all fell together yesterday. Why yesterday? Why didn't we have it before?”

“We only discovered the painting had been taken yesterday.”

“So we did. No, actually, you did. On the third visit. What's the matter, Greg—psychic power not what it used to be?”

“It's not an exact science.”

“No, it isn't. But you're right. We're lucky to discover the painting. After all, it must have been stolen during a burglary, and that burglary must have been last Wednesday night. Because it couldn't have been taken afterward; no one else has been alone in Tyler's apartment since then, have they Greg? Alone downstairs while I was taking a stupid call from Mike bloody Wilson.”

Greg spread his arms, trying not to show how alarmed he was getting. “A few seconds.”

“How long does it take to switch something that small?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“Neither does Richard Townsend. He claims he only received that painting yesterday.”

“He claims. Do you think Alan O'Hagen can confirm that?”

“You know as well as I do I'll never get to ask that question. But my investigation only took off once every piece of the puzzle was dumped into Townsend's hands for me to find.” She dropped the half-smoked cigarette and crunched it under her foot. “What the hell happened to you, Greg? You, I thought you, of all people were trustworthy. For Christ's sake, you fought the PSP for a decade while people like me hid behind our desks. This is the world you were fighting for. Are you surprised it's not perfection? Is that it? Do you have so little faith in the police, in me, that you have to fabricate all this crap to set up an innocent man? Who the hell are you protecting, Greg?”

“Amanda, I promise you, Townsend is not innocent. He is responsible for someone's death.”

“But not Tyler. If I asked that in the interview room and he said no, what would you tell me, Greg? Would you tell me he's lying?”

“You have all the evidence you need. It will hold together in court without my testimony. He's an accessory to murder. He's responsible.”

“And you couldn't prove it? Not for the real crime. That's it, isn't it? No proof. So you set him up for this.”

Greg remained silent, wondering where all this shame he was suddenly feeling was coming from.

“Fine, Greg,” she said. “You got your man. But what about Tyler's killer. He's still walking around loose. He got away with it, with murder. Tyler might not have been the best person in the world, but surely he deserves better than us turning our backs on him?”

“Tyler wasn't murdered. It was a genuine accident. Although, if he hadn't been the person he was, it wouldn't have happened.”

“What do you mean?”

Greg slowly took his cybofax from his jacket pocket, and flipped it open. The face of Tyler's killer looked out blankly from the screen. Greg typed in a few simple instructions, altering the characteristics age-projection program. The face evolved again, but not running its standard eighteen-to-eighty cycle. This time it went back eight years. Daniel Sullivan stared out at Amanda.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered.

“He found out that Tyler was blackmailing his sister into having sex,” Greg said. “So that night he sneaked into the Ingalo's boot. He must have got in through the cloakroom window, probably even saw them on the bed together. Tyler heard him moving around and went to investigate. Daniel pushed him. A little boy incensed at what he'd seen happen to the sister he loved.”

“And she covered for him,” Amanda said. “Turned down the air-conditioning, took the crystal from the AV deck, wiped his fingerprints, then drove him home.”

“Yeah.”

“You knew it all the minute you walked into the bungalow, didn't you?”

“That poor kid was so scared I'm just surprised no one else noticed him.”

“I need another cigarette.”

“You shouldn't. They'll kill you.” He waited to see what she'd do.

She took the packet of twenty from her pocket, and after a long moment handed them to him. “You keep them, and don't tell the health police, huh?”

“I don't have time right now. I have to organize a funeral.”

“Anyone I know?”

“My father-in-law. He died after a hit-and-run.”

Amanda paused for a moment. “Take care, Greg.”

“And you.” He got into the Ranger, and drove out of the station car park. A last glance in the rearview mirror showed him Amanda squaring her shoulders, then marching back into the station.