"Did you wash later on?" Greg asked. "After supper?"
"Yes. My hands, a few times. I went to the toilet; and we were eating peanuts in Uri's room, they leave your hands sticky."
"The time is wrong," Nevin insisted.
"It's not tremendously reliable," Langley said grudgingly. "We can't contest anything with those results."
"What is it?" Nicholas asked, pleased that he had found the courage from somewhere.
"The amount of dirt you were carrying on Friday morning is rather low, that's all," Greg said. He closed his eyes. "Tell me again, what time did you have a shower?"
"After seven, about quarter-past. We have to be down for supper at half-past, you see."
"And you didn't have another shower later?"
"No."
"He's telling the truth."
"Is there a point of contention?" Lisa Collier asked. Greg and Langley both looked at Jon Nevin. The detective gave the cybofax screen one last scan, then snapped the unit shut. "No."
Chapter Ten
Maybe it was the rain, a relentless heavy downpour, which had cleared the reporters from the pavement outside the police station, or maybe the prospect of incurring Julia's wrath had put the fear of God into them.
Whatever the reason, when Greg drove out of the station gates late on Tuesday afternoon, there was only a handful of camera operators in plastic cagoules left to watch him go.
"Thank heavens for that," Eleanor muttered beside him. "I thought they'd put down roots."
He turned up Church Street
, and flicked on the headlights. The sun hadn't quite set, but the solid clouds had smothered Oakham in a grey penumbra. Raindrops emitted a wan yellow twinkle as they slashed through the beams.
"Yeah," he agreed. "You had a word with Julia, then?"
"Absolutely. You know, it's still hard to associate the girl we know with this demon-machinator billionairess all the channels carp on about. I mean, the Prime Minister couldn't call off reporters like this. They'd all race up to the top of the nearest hill and start screaming about oppression and press freedom."
"No messing. But then Marchant doesn't own the launch facilities which boost the broadcast satellite platforms into geosync orbit."
"There is that."
Greg glanced over at Cutts Close; lights were shining in all the caravans, dark figures shuffled across the grass. They hadn't actually retreated then, just regrouped ready for tomorrow.
He nudged the EMC Ranger up to thirty-five kilometres an hour. The rain had driven most of the traffic off the roads, leaving a few cyclists pedalling home, faces screwed up against the spray. His neurohormone hangover was ebbing, it wasn't as if he had to strain for the interviews. The Launde students had been co-operative, a welcome change from the hideously antagonistic mullahs in Turkey.
"What did Julia say about analysing the themed neurohormones?" he asked.
"No problem, we should have the answer some time tomorrow. The courier came and picked the ampoules up while you were doing the interviews." Eleanor gazed blankly at the deserted stalls in the market square. It was the empty expression she used whenever she was more irritated than she wanted to admit. "I had to threaten to call the Home Office for clearance before he authorized their release."
"Who, Denzil?"
"No, one of the detectives in the CID office."
"Oh. Tell you, I think Vernon is softening, and Jon Nevin isn't far behind."
"Great." The tone was biting.
"Nothing pleasant in life ever comes cheap."
She let her head loll back on the support cushioning. "No. As you always tell me. So how did you get on with the students? Are they all innocent?"
He grinned at the double meaning. "I'm pretty certain none of them killed Kitchener. Although God knows enough of them had the motive. He's actually slept with all of the girls."
Eleanor gave him a sideways look. "All of them?"
"Yeah. Sixty-seven years old; now that's the way I'd like to go."
"Hmmm." Her lips pouted disapprovingly. "Which of the students had a motive?"
"Isabel Spalvas. She wasn't actually sleeping with Kitchener against her will, but it's bloody close. Nicholas Beswick. I feel kind of sorry for him. Nice kid, but a bit naïve, head in the clouds type; you know, bright and stupid at the same time. He's head over heels in love with Isabel, although I doubt he's even kissed her yet, they're certainly not lovers. Finding her with Kitchener that night was a monumental shock, but he adored the old man too. Uri Pabari might have had a motive if he'd known Liz Foxton had slept with Kitchener."
"But he didn't know?"
"I didn't ask him; I'll have to check." Greg sagged mentally at the prospect. "And if he didn't know, he will after that kind of leading question. Bugger."
"I thought you said none of the students did it. What's the point of asking Uri about that?"
"Psi isn't an exact science. I can't get up in court and give absolutes, you know that, and I'm bloody sure the lawyers do. All I can ever say is that I haven't perceived them giving me false answers. But suppose somebody had an overwhelming motive to kill Kitchener, they might just be able to conceal their guilt from me, because they don't feel any. Certainly not if I ask them directly. So I creep up on the fact, by checking the peripheries. They can't lie about everything and get away with it, I'll catch them eventually."
"OK, so are there any other students who have a plausible motive?"
He kept his eyes firmly on the road. "One. It's a possible money motive. That belongs to our Miss Rosette Harding-Clarke. Although if anyone at Launde Abbey was due to be murdered, I would have put money on it being her."
Eleanor perked up. "This sounds interesting, especially with the way you're trying to crush the steering-wheel."
"Yeah, well maybe I'm imagining it's her neck. Jesus, Eleanor, you've got to meet her to disbelieve her. Tell you, how she survived life this long with that attitude of hers is a bloody mystery to me. I felt like giving her a damn good smack, but she'd probably only enjoy it." He tried to halt that line of thought. No personal involvement; the first law. Although how anybody could view Rosette dispassionately was beyond him.
"But I thought Rosette Harding-Clarke was the rich one," Eleanor said.
"Yeah, so she claims. She is also the pregnant one."
"Pregnant?"
He smiled at the surprise in her voice. "That's right. And the kid is Kitchener's, or at least she claims it is. And she believes it too, which makes me inclined to believe her. So the first thing I want you to check out tomorrow morning is whether Rosette really is as rich as she says she is. A lot of these so-called aristocrats are worse off than people drawing the dole. And we'll need a legal opinion as well, will the kid stand to inherit anything even though it's not mentioned in the will? Rosette says she won't contest it, but I would have thought the executors have some sort of obligation to provide for the child."
"Right." Eleanor pulled her cybofax out, and loaded the order into it.
* * * *
After living in a two-room chalet for over a decade, the interior of the farmhouse always seemed vast. Furniture rattled around, nothing was ever conveniently near to hand.
The builders had renovated most of it before they moved in, fixing up the roof tiles, replacing the rotten floorboards, stripping out the damp plaster, installing new plumbing and air conditioning, rewiring. They were lucky to get the work done at all. England's industrial regeneration meant the building trade was in the middle of a boom; old factories were being restored, new ones constructed, housing estates were springing up across the country. There was very little spare capacity right now, certainly not for refurbishment jobs in out-of-the-way villages. But Julia's name ensured they were given top priority with the firm they hired, although even her clout didn't extend all the way down into the shady levels of subcontracting. There were still three rooms waiting to be plastered, and the conservatory was a stack of cut and primed wood sitting on the lawn, ready to be
screwed together.
Eleanor had already suggested that he could put it up. As if the groves didn't occupy all his time.
But the farmhouse had definitely acquired that indefinable sense of being home, the animal refuge against a howling world. Returning to it caused a tangible wash of relief. He had half expected some reporters to be standing at the entrance to the drive.
The interior had been decorated by a London firm, their designer working in tandem with Eleanor, to give an early twentieth-century theme; the country house of Victorian nobility. Everything was light and somehow rustic, curtains and carpets in pastel shades, the furniture in delicately stained pine. Neoteric domestic systems were all built in to reproduction units. The only modern setting was the gym, filled with black and silver chromed equipment.
When they arrived back from the police station, Greg slumped down on a settee in the lounge and pointed the remote at the long mock-painting of an eighteenth-century harvest scene which disguised the inert flatscreen. The picture shivered away into a game show where contestants were hanging upside down from the studio ceiling on long bungee cords; they were bouncing in and out of large barrels filled with water, trying to bob apples with their teeth.
He stared at it incredulously for a minute, then shook his head in weary dismay. Mr Domesticity, back home after a hard day at the office, with the wife bustling round in the kitchen.
Except, as usual, his mind was full with little scraps of information from the case, all of them swirling round in a chaotic vortex, stirred by the witching fingers of inquisitiveness and intuition in the hope they would settle into some kind of recognizable pattern. His army mates had called him obsessive. Maybe it could be deemed a character flaw, but he could never let go of a problem. He had almost forgotten how involved he could become in a case. The worrying thing was, it felt good. On the chase again. That bastard who had chopped up Kitchener needed to be put away.
Eleanor came in with a couple of lagers in tall Scandinavian glasses. She took one look at the game show and switched the flatscreen off. Merry peasants and bales of hay snoozing under a sky of golden cloud reappeared.
"You weren't watching it," she said when he protested. "You were thinking about Kitchener."
He snagged one of the lagers. "Yeah."
"You said Rosette was a real bitch," Eleanor said as she sat down on the settee, wriggling her shoulders until she was nestled up snugly against him. "Do you really think she would kill the father of her own baby just for money?"
"No. Now you put it like that, I don't. Tell you though, the one thing those students did have in common was the way they idolized Kitchener. That came through loud and clear; a couple of them actually called him a second father. Instinct says it isn't any of them. But ... it's funny. There are a lot of things which don't add up, certainly not if it was a tekmerc snuff operation." He put his arm round her, enjoying the warm weight pressing into his side.
"The apron," she said. "Now that is really strange."
"That's right. Like you said, why bother with it at all? I can't believe our hypothetical tekmerc used it simply to incriminate the students. First off, we actually can't implicate one of them with it. If they were going to plant evidence why not the knife, some bloodstains?"
"Too obvious."
"Maybe. But the apron isn't obvious enough. And why spend precious time starting a fire? I know covert penetration operations, Christ I've been on enough in my time, the cardinal rule is get out once you've finished, don't loiter."
"Whoever it was, they must have been there a while, though. First they had to wait until Kitchener was alone, then the Bendix was burnt, as well as the neurohormone bioware. It all adds up to a lot of time spent in the Abbey."
"Which gives them an even stronger reason to leave straight after the murder," he countered. "Every extra minute in the Abbey is one more minute when they could be discovered. And why use syntho to kill the bioware in the first place?"
"Because it's there, saves carrying a poison in with them."
"Exactly, but how did they know that? It must have been someone totally familiar with the lab set-up, and even then they couldn't have known for sure that there was any syntho available that particular night. Suppose Kitchener and good old Rosette had been infusing heavily? A tekmerc would have brought a poison, or more likely used a maser. Whatever the method, it would never have been left to chance."
"There are all sorts of other chemicals in the lab, as well as the acids, and the heaters," she said. "There was bound to be something which could kill the bioware. Pure chance they used the syntho."
"Yeah. Could be." But the junked up thought fragments refused to quieten down, he kept seeing flashes of Launde Park, the Abbey, those bloody lakes, Denzil's data-rich tour, the students' broken shocked faces. None of them connected in any way.
He took a gulp of the lager; it was cold enough to numb the back of his throat. "But that still doesn't explain the time they were in the Abbey before the murder," he said.
Eleanor gave a tiny groan.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "We can drop it for the night."
"And put up with moody silences while you're thinking about it. No thanks. But next time Julia can definitely go find someone else. This is Mandel Investigations' last case, Gregory."
He flashed her a smile, squeezing her tighter. "No messing."
"So what about the time?" She sipped at her own lager.
"Why wait until Rosette and Isabel left Kitchener? A tekmerc wouldn't care about snuffing them as well, in fact it would even be beneficial from the mission's point of view. Less people to spot him leaving, raise the alarm."
"But they were a complication, Greg. Killing three people in one room would be risky. Certainly one of them would manage to shout."
"Maybe. But it would mean he had to wait somewhere inside the Abbey for hours. No tekmerc would do that, the exposure risk is too great. And in any case, it implies he knew Rosette would leave Kitchener alone for a while."
"Everyone knew she was an insomniac."
"Her friends, yes. But how would anyone else know?"
"Good question." She leant forward and rescued her cybofax from the coffee table. "There's a couple of other points. Amanda Paterson and I spent the afternoon chasing up English Telecom." She started reading the data on the cybofax screen. "The only datalinks from the Abbey on Thursday were the three we've accounted for: Nicholas and CNES, Rosette and Oxford University, and Kitchener himself, he was plugged into Caltech, over in America. On top of that there were twenty-one phone calls made from cybofaxes; two of them were Mrs Mayberry's, the housekeeper, one of her helpers made another, then Rosette made nine, Cecil made a couple, so did Liz, Nicholas and Isabel both made one each, the other three were all Kitchener's.
"Amanda and another detective are calling the numbers and confirming the calls were vocal. We thought someone could have plugged a cybofax into one of the Abbey's terminals, the bit rate would be substantially lower, but you could still use it to squirt a virus into the Bendix."
"Yeah, assuming it was done on Thursday. There's nothing to prevent you from loading the virus a month ago, and putting it on a time-delay activation."
She gave him a disappointed look. "We had to start somewhere."
"Yeah, sure. Sorry. But nobody's going to remember a phone call from a month or half a year ago."
"I know, but what else can we do?"
"Nothing, it was only ever a very long shot, closing off options. I can't see anyone wanting to wipe the Bendix until after Kitchener was dead, not if the object was to destroy his work. To wipe it when he was alive would be counterproductive, he would be able to recreate his equations or whatever, and you'd alert him to the security problem. And if it was loaded a month ago, how did they know the timing, or when the students would stop accessing it. No, I'm sure it must have been done from within the Abbey after he was killed, that's the only scenario that makes sense."
"You're probably right. Anyway, while Aman
da was running down the phone calls, I checked with RAF Cottesmore about the weather conditions on Thursday. There were winds up to a hundred kilometres an hour locally that night, some gusts reached a hundred and twenty. Here is their squirt."
"Bugger." He put down the lager and looked at the meteorological data which the cybofax was displaying. The purple and blue cloudforms of the weather radar image were super-imposed over a map of Rutland; pressure and wind velocity/direction captions flashed across it.
"Can you fly a microlight in that?" Eleanor asked.
"Not a chance. Even high level would be risky; low level with the microbursts you'd get in the Chater valley, impossible."
She rubbed his arm. "Couldn't they just bike in and out?"
"It's four kilometres to Launde from the A47 by the straightest possible route, eight there and back. The trip there would be in the middle of a hurricane, with a diversion round Loddington to be sure they weren't sighted, and carrying enough gear to melt through the security system. You wouldn't catch me trying to do it."
"But it could be done?" she persisted.
"Theoretically, yeah, an inertial guide would place you within a couple of centimetres. But that terrain, well, you saw it."
"Yes." She gave him back the glass of lager, and curled her legs up, resting her head on his shoulder.
He felt the kiss on the bottom of his jaw, then she was rubbing her cheek against his. Up and down, slowly. "You're all tensed up," she murmured in his ear. "You won't solve anything like that."
For a moment he thought of pulling away. But only for a moment. Besides, she was right, he wouldn't settle it tonight.
* * * *
The bedroom overlooked the reservoir's southern prong, a long dark stretch of water with its wavelets and gently writhing curlicues of mist. Walls and furniture were silky white; vases, picture frames, curtains, sheets, and the bedposts were all coloured in shades of blue; the oaken floorboards smoothed down and waxed until they resembled a ballroom floor.