The final member of the meeting was secure i-conferencing from her own office in Brussels, showing on the wallscreen opposite the window. O’Rouke introduced her as Charmonique Passam, a vice commissioner for the Grande Europe Bureau of Alien Affairs. Sid had never heard of her, nor her bureau, but the type-recognition was instant. A politician: worst kind. She was in her early fifties, groomed and dressed in a painfully inadequate imitation of the genuinely wealthy. Suit from some Parisian couture house. Dark hair locked rigidly into place and streaked with brown highlights. Indian-heritage skin with pink and blue makeup shaded across cheeks and eyes. It all made her look even older, which Sid guessed might be the purpose. Her advisers must have told her age equated to gravitas. Quite how that much money and intellect could be exhausted to produce an image that was as comic as it was pitiful, Sid couldn’t grasp. The one other thing he didn’t understand was what she was doing i-conferencing here tonight. He didn’t get to ask, either.
“Any progress?” O’Rouke began after he’d run the introductions.
Which was a great start, Sid thought. “We’ve identified possible sites where the body was dumped in the river. However, the most interesting aspect is the identity.”
“Who was it?” Vance Elston asked.
“We don’t know.”
“And you think that’s interesting?”
“Very. We’ve verified he was a 2North. Yet they’re all accounted for. Our current belief is that an imposter is imitating a 2North, probably to advance some type of corporate scam. Once we’ve positively identified the site where the body was dumped into the river, we can begin a backtrack operation,” Sid replied levelly. “I’ve prepared the procedures ready for authorization.”
“By whom?” Charmonique Passam inquired.
“I need to discuss that with the chief constable,” Sid replied cautiously. Her tone told him it was a loaded question, but then her tone was like someone from the royal family speaking in a century-old recording. Patronizing. Sid realized just how bad his opinion of her was growing, and made an effort to stop being so cynical. He knew he’d resort to sarcasm if the meeting stretched on too long, and that wouldn’t be good in any way.
“I’m not referring to which agency you contract. I’m interested in your team’s composition.”
“I’m sorry?” Out of the corner of his eye Sid could see O’Rouke’s face stiffen up as the skin slowly turned ruddy. That blood pressure problem would kill him off one day not far away. Interestingly, there was no reaction from Elston, nothing at all, which was impressive. He was a parent waiting stoically for a toddler’s tantrum to blow out.
“It seems very male-centric,” Charmonique Passam said. “That’s all I’m saying. But I am surprised to
have
to say it in this day and age, as I thought we were long past such issues after eighteen separate equality enforcement acts in the last hundred years. Very worthwhile acts, too, I might add.”
And what the fuck do you know about our duty rotas, let alone attracting anyone at all—least of all women—to do this job on the piss-poor pay and shit-mountain grief that the government—
you
—gives us.
“If you’re dissatisfied with my team—” Sid started hotly.
“No. I did not express dissatisfaction, Detective, I simply made an observation.”
“I can talk with HR in the morning.”
“HR?”
“Human Resources.”
“In Brussels that kind of department is referred to as the Office for Personkind Enablement. Resources sounds like something you dig out of the ground. It’s offensive to so many people given the historical rare earth mineral conflicts.”
“Right.”
Away man, you are a complete bollock-brain
.
“But I thank you for the courtesy of accommodating my concerns.”
“Okay, this is what’s happening,” O’Rouke said. “As of now the case is under HDA jurisdiction.”
“The Human Defense Alliance?” Sid asked in astonishment. He’d assumed some kind of Brussels-backed Interpol takeover.
“Yes, Detective,” Elston said. “An agent called Ralph Stevens will be here tomorrow to act as our liaison to your team. As when the Norths were funding you, you will have unlimited budget and resources at your disposal, but we will be the paymasters now. We very much want you to find out exactly where this North was murdered.”
Sid stared back at him in bewilderment. “You want me to carry on? Me?”
For the first time, Elston showed a small smile. “Yes, Sid: you. We’ve all reviewed your file. You’re highly competent; your actual detection rate is impressively high, especially in serious crime cases. Me, I don’t have the first clue how to go about directing a major criminal investigation. Don’t get me wrong, Ralph and I will be breathing fire down your neck the whole time. But we trust you to take point on this.”
“Thank you.” He didn’t dare risk glancing at O’Rouke or Aldred. “So what is really going on here? What’s the HDA’s interest?”
“The HDA is taking over for one simple reason,” Elston said. “The murder method, or to be precise the instrument used to shred the victim’s heart.”
“But … we don’t even know what the hell it is yet,” Sid protested.
“That’s exactly what makes this so special. You see, the murder method has actually been employed once before.”
*
Town Moor was a huge area of parkland to the northeast of Newcastle’s city center, with a single road, the A189, running across the middle. To the western side of the intrusive tarmac strip was the golf course, where membership now cost nineteen thousand eurofrancs a year, and the waiting list was a mere eight years providing you had the right social contacts. To the east, the park was untended, a lush green wilderness amid the harsh urban bustle that surrounded it. In summer it was well used, providing people a pleasant refuge from their hectic lives: families had daylong picnics, runners chased over its rolling grass, lads played football, and kids flew their remote mini bugs and planes and copters, buzzing innocent bystanders and dodging the wardens. In winter visitors fell off dramatically. Now, after weeks of snow and constant subzero temperatures, even the most ardent dog walkers and fell runners were snubbing it until better weather returned.
The lightwave ship came down in the middle of Town Moor, barely a hundred meters from the A189. Anywhere else, at any other time, it would have been a complete impossibility to land an actual real live interplanetary spaceship smack in the center of a human city without anyone noticing. But here it was, a featureless, thirty-meter-high stealth-black bubble cone, with five broad circular rings around its midsection—like curled-up wings—containing sections of the lightwave drive thrusters that lowered it down silently out of an invisible night sky amid thick flakes of snow.
It rested on three hemispherical bulges in the base, which compacted the snow underneath until the center of the fuselage belly itself pressed against the fluffy white blanket. A rectangular air lock door dissolved, and a short aluminum airstair slid down. Clayton 2North emerged dressed in a quilted parka with a fur-lined hood pulled tight against his face. Rebka followed him, wearing an altogether more stylish fake-suede coat with big white buttons down the front, interrupted by a wide scarlet belt. Both wore sturdy boots. Rebka stood still and tipped her head back, opening her mouth as the snow settled on her skin. She licked avidly at the icy flakes, and started to laugh.
“This is fantastic,” she exclaimed. “I never imagined anything like this.”
Clayton gave her a tolerant look and told his e-i to seal the spaceship. The airstair retracted and the air lock door shimmered back to existence. With a brief show of reluctance, Rebka double-looped her wide woolen scarf around her head, pulled on a bright purple beret, and started walking through the swirling snow toward the road. They’d covered less than fifty meters before the spacecraft was lost behind them amid the darkness and snow. Rebka giggled.
“What?” Clayton asked.
“You all used to bitch about what a problem traffic and parking was in Newcastle.”
He had to grin at that. “Well, let’s hope the wardens don’t swing by tonight. The fine for that baby would be out of this world.”
A minute later they found the road, though it was difficult. The snowplows hadn’t been through Town Moor for three hours. A couple of minutes later two city taxis crawled along the ice-coated tarmac. Clayton had ordered them from their permanent private Newcastle security team as soon as the ship’s core had interfaced with the local net. He waved at the vehicles, laughing at himself for the no-brain redundancy—like there was anyone else waiting out here—as his e-i quested an identity. The return ping contained the confirmation code, and the vehicles stopped beside them.
The two drivers got out, staring at the visitors from another world with interest and respect.
“Take care,” Clayton told her.
She gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “You too. Be good.”
“As good as I can be.” His e-i sent out a connectivity quest, testing the secure connection between them. “Don’t break the link.”
“Not until I get there.”
There was an awkward moment. She gave him a quick platonic kiss, and climbed into the back of her taxi, smiling gratitude at the driver who was holding the door open for her.
Clayton went over to his taxi and settled in the backseat, only to be overwhelmed by unexpected and unwelcome nostalgia. The cheap synthetic-leather cushioning, smell of badly filtered air, gum pats on the floor. It was fifty-five years since he’d left Earth for good, and despite a few visits since, nothing had changed.
“I’m Ivan, sir,” the driver said. “Where are we going?”
“Here,” Clayton’s e-i sent the auto an address.
“Shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes, sir,” Ivan said.
“I expect the house will have an alarm system.”
“Nothing that will cause any trouble, sir. We can handle any kind of domestic protection system.”
“Good to hear.”
The taxi pulled out from the verge. Clayton saw the headlights of Rebka’s taxi as it made a U-turn behind them, and within seconds its beams had vanished.
T
UESDAY,
J
ANUARY 15, 2143
Six fifty-six AM. The alarm started its relentless electronic buzz. Sid groaned and reached for—
“No,” Jacinta warned him.
“Sod it.” He slowly swung his legs out of bed until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress and devoid of any duvet. The bedroom air was cold, maybe only a degree above freezing, and he could feel it chill-burning down his nasal passages and coughed brokenly. Only then did he smack the clock a good one, shutting it up. His yawn threatened to go on forever.
“So what was it last night?” Jacinta asked as she rummaged around on her bedside cabinet for various clips and bands. Her wild mane of hair was slowly tamed, revealing a face that was both curious and concerned.
“The North case,” he sighed as his iris smartcells woke and displayed his grid. He hadn’t gotten home until gone midnight; after the meeting with O’Rouke he’d spent hours with Elston, reading through the HDA briefing, then returning the favor by bringing Elston up to date on the team’s case files and proposed avenues of inquiry.
“Well, that’s a big plus, isn’t it, pet? You being left in charge?”
“Theoretically, yes. But there’s a supervisor been brought in from—” He hesitated. “Brussels.” He hated lying to her, but even O’Rouke had been worried last night. It would only take one unguarded word in the hospital canteen and his career really would be a blitzed ruin.
“Oh.” She contemplated that for a while. “Did you make any progress yesterday?”
“Not much, which means it was a professional job.” Which, in turn, made what he’d been shown last night a mad paradox. “But we do have an unlimited budget, which is going to help.”
“Good for you.” She gave him a quick kiss, then scurried out to get into the bathroom before the kids. Sid started searching around for a clean shirt and socks.
It was porridge again for breakfast. The snow had stopped sometime during the night, but there was no sign of a thaw, although the clouds were thinning. Sid timed how long the thick mush simmered for, then poured it into bowls. Zara wanted honey with hers. Will of course wanted jam.
Sid finally found all the jars, plonked a carton of orange juice on the table, and fished some clean spoons out of the dishwasher. Jacinta sat down, bringing the cafeteer with her.
“I need a new blazer for school,” Will announced.
“What’s wrong with that one?” Sid asked.
Will held an arm out. The blazer cuff was short of his wrist by several centimeters.
“Fair enough,” Sid said. “We’ll get one at the weekend.” His bodymesh warned him his twenty-four-hour caffeine intake was now exceeding GE advisory limit. He told his e-i to shut it off.
Will rolled his eyes as he let out a wounded sigh. “I can go tonight. By myself. Don’t need you.”
“Sorry, but you see I actually want to be there to embarrass you. It’s what fathers do best. We’re all going together.”
Zara perked up. “We can all go shopping together?”
“For things we
need
.” He knew that was never going to stick.
Zara dipped her head, not quite hiding a secret smile of satisfaction.
“Are we moving?” Will asked.
Sid had completely forgotten about the house in Jesmond. “Oh yeah, how did that go?”
“I ran their catalog virtual in our zone last night,” Jacinta said. “It ticks a lot of boxes.”
“Great,” Sid said, on husband-auto.
“So now we have to go take a visit,” Jacinta pointed out.
Will frowned. “Why? You’ve had a virtual.”
“Because a house is not just a lot of money,” Sid explained. “It’s all the money we have. So we don’t just rely on a virtual catalog, okay. The station has had cases where the house didn’t actually exist, and the vendors didn’t find out until they turned up on moving day with a vanload of furniture.”
“Away, man!” Will exclaimed.
“More common is an expanded scale, so you think it’s bigger than it actually is. And the estate agent will add a room that isn’t there. You have to go and see it. The transnet isn’t perfect, you know; most of the data is unverified.”