BUGGER HIM ... PARDON MY FRENCH. I DECIDE MY OWN PRIORITIES. ME ME ME.
"You'll get me into trouble."
NEVER. SAY HI TO GREG. TELL HIM HE HAD BETTER SHOW UP HIMSELF NEXT TIME.
"I will."
AND YOU. COME BACK. SEE ME.
"Yes." She gave him a last glance, non-human, shamed by the fact that she could never in a million years show so much bravery. There was no point in even asking him to come out to the farm. It could be done, physically, with stretchers and vans and plenty of advanced planning. But his inheritance tied him to Mucklands far tighter than the web of fibre-optic cables ever did. Him and Teddy, neither of them would leave; there was no point, they were Mucklands, it went with them wherever they were.
Qoi popped up out of the kitchen without being summoned, and showed her to the door.
Chapter Twelve
"As always, the sylphlike Julia Evans remains resolutely wedded to her fallal dress sense," Jakki Coleman said. She was at her Mediterranean villa, lounging on a sunbed at the side of a kidney-shaped pool.
On the far side was a white stone balustrade, guarding the steep drop down to a muzzy blue sea. The palm trees were growing out of stone barrels, fronds stirring in a gentle breeze.
"Considering the perennial obsession which the Gothic cult has for the afterworld, this particular selection of garments worn for the Prior's Fen footings ceremony is highly appropriate. Because, let's face it, our poor dear Julia looks as if she's been exhumed after a few weeks residing in a grave."
"BITCH!" Julia shrieked.
Her tea cup hit the flatscreen in the centre, smashing into crescent fragments; it was the first object her searching hand could find, a big yellow and blue breakfast cup from the bedside tray. Sugary dregs began to trickle down the flat-screen, smearing the dark-haired young man who climbed out of the pool and began towelling himself off.
Patrick raised his head from the mounds of pillows which had accumulated on his side of the bed, blinking sleep from his eyes. "What?" he grunted blearily.
"Oh go back to sleep." Julia fired the remote at the flatscreen, imagining it was a laser pistol, beam scorching a hole through Jakki Coleman's head, her middle-aged head, and the shiny blue swimsuit showed her thighs were getting flabby too. She folded her arms below her breasts and glared at the blank rectangle.
Her bedroom was decorated in a soothing montage of pink and white tones, extremely feminine, with exquisite lacy frills on all the furniture, subdued lighting, a huge four-poster bed with a Romany canopy, ankle-deep pile carpet. It was the third redesign in four years; each time she edged closer to her ideal, the romantic French-château image she secretly treasured.
And what would Jakki Coleman have to say about it? Bitch!
"You're upset about something," Patrick said.
"Oh, ten out of ten, give it a banana."
"Was it me?"
"No," she said tightly.
"Ah, right." He subsided back into the pillows.
Well that ruined the morning mood, Julia thought, there would be no sex now.
She pointed the remote at the windows. The thick imperial-purple velour curtains swept aside to show her the balcony. Wisteria vines, gene-tailored against the heat of the new seasons, were wrapped round the wrought iron railings, producing a solid wall of delicate mauve flower clusters. Wilholm's rear lawns formed a splendid backdrop with their English country house formality, she could just see the long trout lake at the bottom, its fairytale waterfall tinged brown from the silt washed down the stream by the heavy rains.
Not even the garden's naturalistic perfection could break her ire. Bugger Jakki Coleman anyway. Who cared what she said?
Although that wasn't the half of it. She still felt guilty about asking Greg to look into the Kitchener murder. And the murder itself was a complication she could do without. Right now Morgan's security division was stretched pretty thinly defending the company from conventional threats—industrial sabotage, industrial espionage, crooked accountants, hotrod hackers infiltrating the datanet. Why would anybody feel strongly about something as weirdly abstract as superphysics wormholes? Surely it couldn't be an anti-Evans gesture? Not slaughtering a defenceless old man? She couldn't believe anyone was that sick and warped; besides, there had been no announcement. If any operational PSP remnants had killed Kitchener they would have been crowing about it all across the media by now.
At least there hadn't been much mention of Greg on the newscasts she had caught before flicking over to the Coleman trollop. Some jerky pictures taken from a shoulder-mounted camera, the operator running after the EMC Ranger as it drove out of the police station, Eleanor's tight-lipped anger, Greg impassive as always.
Patrick touched her shoulder. "You're very tense." His fingers slid down her arm to the elbow, then stroked her breast, circling the nipple.
She tilted her head back and sighed through clenched teeth. "No, Patrick."
His tongue nuzzled her ear, stubble scratching her collar bone. "I can massage all that tension away. You know I can."
It was very very tempting. There wasn't a chime in her head Patrick couldn't ring whenever he chose. But for all that ecstasy, he was a mechanical lover. She had begun to suspect a great deal of his excitement came from the way he controlled her body, almost a voyeur of his own performance.
"No," she said abruptly, and shoved her feet out of the bed.
"Sorry, I've got a busy morning." She picked up her neglige from the floor where he'd thrown it last night and went into the bathroom.
She sat on the side of the circular marble bath and dropped her head in her hands, staring glumly at the swan mosaic on the wall opposite. There were just so many issues clamouring insistently for her attention right now; the petty, the important, and the personal.
She made an effort to blank them out, as if her whole mind was one giant processor node she could shut down when she wanted. It didn't work; Patrick was easy to ignore, a feat which raised its own slightly disquieting question, but she found herself returning to yesterday's strange conversation with Karl Hildebrandt. Greg was always telling her to trust her native instinct; it's a variant on precognition, he explained, not quite rational, but ninety per cent reliable. And right now her instincts said that conversation was desperately wrong.
The bad PR she had been picking up from leftish organizations and pressure groups had been more or less constant for two years, ever since the giga-conductor was announced to the public. In that context Greg and the Kitchener case was just one more incident. Nothing special. The way she was siting factories in marginal constituencies was far more blatant, provocative.
The PR angle was a blind, then, it had to be. Karl had wanted Greg off the case, plain and simple. From what she had heard about the strange circumstances out at the Abbey, Oakham's CID would be very unlikely to find the murderer without Greg and Event Horizon's resources behind them.
How would Karl benefit from that?
Wrong tack, she realized; Karl was the bank's mouthpiece, the perfect corporate cyborg. How would Diessenburg Mercantile benefit from allowing Kitchener's murderer to go free?
Open Channel To NN Core.
Morning, Juliet.
A wan smile crept on to her face. Good old Grandpa, he was so indefatigable.
Morning, Grandpa. Anything important happen last night?
Someone tried to break in to our Leicester music deck factory warehouse; it was a local gang, they'd even brought a lorry with them to cart away their loot. Security suspects someone on the inside was feeding them information on the shipments. There was an attempt to snatch data out of the genetics research division memory core, we think they were after the land-coral splices. The guardian programs prevented any data loss, and security are working with English Telecom to see if they can backtrack the hackers. Hopeless, of course. The pound closed three cents up on the dollar, and the FTcast index was up eight points. Market confidence is high after the spaceplane roll out. There was a lot of data tr
affic between our backing consortium partners right into the wee small hours. Got 'em on the run, we have, Juliet.
Did you break any of their squirts?
No, they're using a high-order encryption code. It could be done, but it would tie up a lot of processing capacity. Not cost-effective. They'll agree to Prior's Fen.
Hope so.
Everything all right, Juliet?
Yes. No.
Executive material if ever I saw it. So bloody decisive you are, my girl.
What do you think of Patrick, Grandpa?
Handsome, rich, cultured, quite clever, well mannered. Picked yourself a good one again, Juliet.
There was a shade too much emphasis on again for her mind. She glanced up at the mirror above the basin. And boy oh boy did she look melancholy. Her hair was a complete mess as well. Patrick did so enjoy seeing it tossed about. His husky voice in the dark, encouraging her, whispering how wild she was. It never seemed to matter in bed, excitement overriding everything.
Yah, she replied. So how come they never last?
I said good, I never said flawless.
Do you think he's going to start asking me for shipping contracts?
No. Even if his family shipping line needed 'em, he wouldn't ask. And they don't need 'em, I've had our commercial intelligence division keeping an eye open.
My very own guardian angel. You're wonderful, Grandpa.
You'll find him one day, Juliet. I'll be a great-grandfather
Don't hold your breath, not the way I'm going.
I watched that Coleman woman this morning.
I don't want to talk about it! She reached for a comb and began to pull it through the knots. The face in the mirror was scowling petulantly.
I don't like you being ridiculed like that, Juliet. Let me tell you, my girl, it would never have happened in my day. People should have more bloody respect. You ought to blacklist that channel, no adverts, and pass the word round everyone Event Horizon does business with. That frigid Coleman cow would soon get the message.
It was the second time temptation had been put in front of her that morning. She considered it, something like envy colouring every thought. No, Grandpa. If I started using my power like that, where would it end?
Use it or lose it girl. I've told you before.
That is misuse, as you well know. I get into enough trouble using it where it's beneficial.
Ah, Juliet, a little bit of self-indulgence occasionally never hurt
Don't you worry about me, Grandpa. I'll get that Jakki Coleman, you'll see.
My girl.
She put the comb down, the worst of the knots out. It would be safe to ask her maid Adelia to wash and set it now. Adelia always got mighty prickly if she was faced with a big untangling job every morning.
I've been thinking about Karl Hildebrandt, she said.
Oh, yeah? I don't think he'd be a suitable replacement for Patrick.
Behave! I meant his wanting me to take Greg off the Kitchener case. There's something very funny about that.
Well ... it was a very high-profile appointment, Juliet. Bloody marvelous it is, girl, the first time in four years the company hasn't had an ulterior motive in twisting Marchant's arm, and everyone starts banging on about undue influence. We just can't win.
Karl is a front for Diessenburg Mercantile, Grandpa, first, last, and always, even in these circumstances. He was too quick off the mark, and too insistent asking to see me just to be offering sociable advice. He was ordered to do it.
Conceded, it is a bit odd. Do you think it's important?
Yes. Why would Diessenburg Mercantile have any interest in a ghoulish murder in the middle of the English countryside?
Beats me, girl.
Well, find out.
Oh, yes, bloody abracadabra. Here you are.
Don't get stroppy, Grandpa. It's simple. Run down a list of Diessenburg Mercantile's other investments for me, and see if any of them comes into conflict with the work Kitchener was doing.
What, a stardrive!?
She went to the basin, and ran the cold tap, splashing some of the water on her face. It did sound pretty unlikely now she had spelt it out. Yes, I know it sounds totally wonky, Grandpa. But there has to be a reason.
I suppose so, girl. You've got to remember all this nonsense about actually building flying saucers sounds pretty bloody impossible to a relic like me. Listen, when I was a lad the Daleks were the wildest piece of imagination ever to hit England. I was terrified of them. One time when the Doctor was caught in some caves by ...
Yah. If you could get that data correlated in time for the conference this afternoon I'd be grateful.
Bloody hell, Juliet, you've got a heart of Ice. Black ice.
I wonder who I inherited that from?
All right, I'll get on to it.
Thanks, Grandpa. I really am jolly busy this morning. I've got a video bite opportunity with the national swimming squad; then there's the Nottingham councillors' delegation, and the meeting for the Home Counties region managerial report.
You should complain to the union steward, they're working you too hard.
If I ever get the chance, I'll tell him.
Cancel Channel To NN Core.
She called Adelia on the housephone and asked her to be ready in half an hour. There was just time for a quick bath, wash off last night's tussle.
Hot water gushed out of the wide tap nozzle, kicking up clouds of steam. She stood in the middle of the bath as it twisted round her, reviewing what clothes to wear for meeting the swimming team. Event Horizon sponsored the England squad, so it was mainly a PR event, but she took a genuine interest in the team's performance. Swimming had been her sport at school.
She sat down when the water reached her knees, and switched on the spa. Water jets and bubbles pummelled her skin, easing the tension out of her muscles.
It was no good, she couldn't think what to wear.
Access Dictionary File. Define: Fallal.
Fallal, the memory node reported. Gaudy or vulgar, in reference to jewellery, or clothing, or ornament, etc.
Bitch!
Chapter Thirteen
The original buildings of HMP Stocken Hall were still virtually intact, a regimented complex of stolid cell blocks squatting behind the five-metre perimeter fence topped with razor wire. Solar panels had been added to the south-facing walls, although they only came up to the bottom of the second-storey windows, leaving a band of ginger brickwork free. The tall concrete-segment chimney of the old utility building was swathed in dark ivy, abandoned now, the machinery it served rusted beyond repair. Solar water-heaters had been set up on the flat roofs, like giant silver flowers with long tubular midnight-black stamens.
Greg could see work parties tending the vegetable plots inside the fence, men in grey one-piece uniforms lethargically scratching at the waterlogged soil with rakes and hoes. Prisons were officially responsible for producing fifty per cent of their own foodstuff, though the actual figure was often much higher. Grow it, or go hungry. A concept which the PSP had introduced, and the New Conservatives saw no need to alter. Dismay at the idea of prisoners sitting unproductively in their cells for twenty-two hours a day was something both sides of the political divide shared, especially when Treasury funds were scarce.
He drove past the first set of large gates in the fence. The land around was rumpled with low rolling hillocks and gentle dells, meadows, and beanfields cluttered with the spindly grey sentries of dead trees which marked the line of old hedgerows. A couple of largish woods to the north had that verdant shine which betrayed the new vine species establishing themselves on the bones of the past.
Stocken Hall itself straddled a rise east of the A1 just north of Stretton village, a fifteen-minute drive from Hambleton.
He had taken the Jaguar; the car had been a present from Julia two Christmases ago. It was a powerful streamlined vehicle which looked as if it had been milled from a single block of olive-green metal. He always fe
lt incredibly self-conscious driving it, and Eleanor was no better, which was why it stayed in the barn eleven months of the year. But he had to admit in this instance the image of professional respectability it fostered was probably going to be useful.
The second gate was the one he wanted; two red and white pole barriers, with metal one-way flaps in the concrete. There was a big steel-blue sign outside which read:
HMP Stocken Hall
Clinical Detention Centre
He stopped in front of the barrier, lowering the window to show his card to the white sensor pillar at the side of the road.
"Entry authorization confirmed, Mr Mandel," the pillar's construct voice said. "Please park in slot seven. Thank you."
The barrier in front of him lifted.
If anything, Stocken's new annexe was even drabber than its older counterparts. The building was a three-storey hexagon, fifty metres to a side, with a broad central well; a metal skeleton overlaid with gunmetal-grey composite panels, three rings of silvered glass spaced equidistantly up its frontage. Modular, factory-built, easy to assemble, cheap, and twice as strong as the traditional brick and cement structures.
He hadn't been expecting such a sophisticated set-up; like most government ministries the Home Office, and therefore its subsidiary the prison service, was currently cash starved.
And even in pre-Warming times, improving prison conditions had never rated highly in MPs' priority lists. Constituents didn't appreciate their tax money being spent on giving criminals a cushy number.
As he drove round to the car park outside the Centre's main entrance he saw another prison party at work in the dead forest at the back of the perimeter fence. Trunks were being felled, then trimmed before they were hauled off to a sawmill set up under a green canvas awning. It was hard work, rain had turned the ground to a quagmire, but even so he was surprised the inmates were allowed chain saws. Stocken was a category A prison.
He hurried over the band of granite chips which encircled the building, discomfort trickling into his veins, as tangible as a gland secretion. Too many of his mates from the Trinities had wound up being sent to places like Stocken in the PSP years, and not all of them had survived transit.