She wished Patrick was there as she stepped out of the plane and into the most appalling humidity. Just someone who could hold her hand, in both senses; she always hated the way the crowds stared at her during these events. But Patrick was busy in Peterborough, helping to establish an office for his family company.
Steeling herself against the incursive eyes, she smiled as her boots reached the rough metal grid of the floating quay. She put on a very foppish wide-brimmed hat of black suede, grateful for the scant relief it offered from the sun. There was a strong whiff of sulphur coming off the quagmire, mingling with brine.
Stephen Marano, the project engineer, trotted up to greet her. He was in his mid-forties, stuffed into a light-grey suit which didn’t really fit. He was a perfect choice to boss the labour crews, but completely out of his depth talking to her. His smile flickered on and off, words got tangled in his throat, he seemed taken aback by her Goth get-up.
She wanted to tell him not to say anything, ease his suffering a bit, but he would only interpret that as a rebuke, so she let him struggle on and introduce her to the fifteen-strong management team of architects and site engineers. A long exercise in tedium and discomfort.
Three channel camera crews followed the procedure from a distance. She recognized one of the teams from the Globe-cast logo on their jackets.
After the introductions they all trooped down a long ramp to the foot of the excavation. Julia realized they were actually below the level of the mud outside. Yellow JCB diggers were parked on the black peat, crews standing around them. They whistled and cheered as she went past. She didn’t actually hear any jeers, but there were plenty of wolf-whistles. Stephen Marano winced at each of them.
It was wet underfoot; mercifully her skirt hem hovered five centimetres above the ground, but her boots received a liberal splattering. The site had been crisscrossed by drainage trenches, their pumps whirring noisily in the background.
They stopped by a wood-lined square hole close to the sheer groyne wall. A big cement mixer lorry stood beside it, its rumbling dying away as the operator pressed a button on its side.
One of the managers handed her a microphone.
Access FootingSpeech.
She cleared her throat, the sound echoing loudly round the groyne walls. The camera crews focused on her. Rachel and Ben stood unobtrusively on either side, heads moving slowly back and forth as they scanned the assembled crew.
‘I don’t suppose you want a long speech,’ Julia said, suddenly very self-conscious about her finishing-school accent. ‘And you’re not going to get one, not while you’re on my time.’ She saw smiles appearing under the coloured hard hats. ‘I would simply like to say that although the company space programme draws most of the media attention, you people slogging through the mud out here are just as important. Space isn’t the only direction the future lies in. Out here we have got a vast wasteland which everyone despises and resents, while back on shore there are too many people living too close together. This tower which we are starting today is going to lead the way in alleviating some of the pressure on population density, as well as the demands which industry is placing on the green belt. Land is becoming a very precious resource, and I am extremely proud that Event Horizon is setting this example that expansion is possible without coming into conflict with the environment. In the scramble to rebuild our economy, we must never forget the reasons for the Warming. We cannot afford to ignore the painful lessons of the past if we are to prevent the repetition of our grotesque mistakes in the future.’
Exit FootingSpeech.
She handed the microphone back as the management group applauded loudly.
‘This way, Miss Evans,’ Stephen Marano said. He gestured to the cement mixer.
The operator was a stocky man in a yellow T-shirt, grubby jeans, and an orange hard hat. He grinned broadly and pointed to the small control panel on the back of the lorry. It had five chrome-ringed buttons running down the centre. The green button had a new sticker above it which said: PRESS ME.
‘Even I can’t make a mess of that,’ Julia told him. Lord, what a dumb thing to say.
‘No, miss.’ He bobbed about, delighted at being the centre of attention.
Julia pressed the button.
The mixer started up again, concrete sliding down the chute into the footings.
It looks like elephant crap, she thought.
The management team started clapping again.
She clamped down on a laugh which threatened to escape. Didn’t they realize how stupid they looked?
But of course they did. They were less worried about appearing foolish than they were about annoying her.
She sobered sadly, and offered Stephen Marano her hand to shake. ‘I didn’t appreciate what the conditions were like out here before today, Stephen. You really have done a terrific job getting this phase completed, and on time too. Thank you.’
He nodded in gratitude. ‘Thanks, Miss Evans. It’s been tough, but they’re a good bunch of lads. It should be easier next time, now we know what we’re doing.’
She guessed that was about as subtle as he would get. It made a nice change, sometimes she was ten minutes into a conversation with a kombinate director or a bank finance officer before she realized everything said was a veiled question. Business talk was conducted in its own special code of ambiguities.
They started to walk back towards the ramp.
‘The next two times,’ she told him. ‘I want to bring a couple of complete cyber-precincts out here next, and link them to the city with a train line. Of course, we’ll have to build a service tributary from the Nene as well.’
He gave her a genuine grin. ‘I wish you’d been around before the Warming, Miss Evans. A few more people with your kind of vision and we’d never have wound up in this damn great mess.’
‘Thank you, Stephen.’
Access GeneralBusiness: Review Stephen Marano, Civil Engineer. Invite To Next Middle Management Dinner Evening.
As they reached the base of the ramp a group of about ten workers moved towards her. Rachel and Ben closed in smoothly. Nothing provocative, but there, ready.
Julia gave the group an expectant look as they stopped short. One of them was nudged forwards by his mates. He looked about seventeen, not quite needing to shave every day, wearing the regulation jeans and T-shirt, shaggy dark hair sticking out below his scuffed light-blue hard hat. He was clutching a bouquet of red roses with a blue ribbon done up in a bow. She suspected he’d been chosen for his age, there couldn’t have been many younger than him working out here. And he clearly wanted to be anywhere right now but standing in front of her.
‘M-M-Miss Evans?’ he stammered.
She gave him a gentle encouraging smile.
‘Er, I, that is, all of us. Well, we really appreciate what you do, like. Investing so much in England, and everything. And giving us all jobs as well, ’cos we wouldn’t be any use in no office or a cyber factory. So, like, we got you these.’ The bouquet was jerked up nervously. ‘Sorry it’s only flowers, like, but you’ve got everything …’ He trailed off in embarrassment.
Julia accepted the bouquet as though she was taking a baby from him. She prayed the cameras weren’t recording this, for the boy’s sake.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Lewis, Miss. Lewis Walker.’
‘Did they bully you into this, Lewis?’
‘Yeah. Well, no. I wanted to anyway, like.’
She deliberately took her time sniffing the roses. The humidity stifled most of the scent. ‘What a lovely smell.’ She put one hand on her hat, and leant forwards before the boy could dodge away, brushing her lips against his cheek. ‘Thank you, Lewis.’
A rowdy cheer went up from the onlookers. Lewis blushed crimson, eyes shining.
The Dornier lifted from the floating quay, cabin deck tilting up at a ten-degree angle as it climbed, nose lining up on Peterborough.
Julia thought about the incident with Lewis as t
he hexagonal site dropped away below the fuselage. It couldn’t possibly have been one of the ‘spontaneous’ demonstrations the PR division was forever dreaming up. They would have plumped for something far more elaborate. The sheer crudity had made it incredibly touching.
She had given the bouquet to Caroline Rothman as soon as they were back in the tilt-fan. ‘Put them in water. And I want them on the dining room table this evening.’ Pride of place.
She couldn’t get rid of the image of Lewis Walker, being joshed and having his back slapped by his mates as he returned to them. As she was returning to the Dornier; her world.
That poor, poor boy, there was something utterly irresistible about someone looking so lost. And his T-shirt had been tight enough to show a hard flat belly. Real muscle, not Patrick’s designer gym tone.
She allowed herself exactly one lewd grin.
It couldn’t happen, not with Lewis Walker, but fantasies existed to be enjoyed.
Funny how different they were; yet only a couple of years apart. Him stammering, elated and terrified at being thrust into the limelight; her simply breezing through every public appearance on automatic, bored and resentful.
She could monitor him from afar to make sure he did all right, a modern day fairy godmother, pushing opportunities his way. Event Horizon ran dozens of scholarship schemes for workers who wanted to advance themselves. And she was on the board of two charities promoting further education.
Of course, he wouldn’t dare refuse if a place was offered. Nobody in the company ever did refuse her gifts. She saw the site management team clapping conscientiously – obediently. But would he be happy plucked from what he was doing now and shoved into night schools and polytechnic training courses?
Should I interfere?
That’s what it boiled down to.
No. The only possible answer. Not unasked. Not in individual lives. People had to be responsible for themselves.
She activated the phone, and placed a call to Horace Jepson. Uncle Horace, though he wasn’t really, just a friend of her grandpa’s, and now hers. A solid rock of support when she took over Event Horizon. He was the chairman of Globecast, the largest satellite channel company in the world.
His ruddy face appeared on the bulkhead flatscreen. He was in his early sixties, but plastique had reversed entropy, and returned him to his late forties. A rather chubby late forties, she thought disapprovingly.
‘Julia! How’s my favourite billionairess?’
‘Soldiering on, Uncle Horace.’
‘You don’t look like you’re suffering. You look gorgeous. Damn, but you grew up pretty. I wish I was twenty years younger.’
She put on her most innocent expression, and batted her eyelashes for him. ‘Uncle Horace, why ever do you want to go back down to being sixty again?’
‘Julia!’ He looked crestfallen.
‘Have you been skipping your diet again?’ she asked sternly.
‘Terrific. I don’t hear a word for three weeks, and she phones me up to nag.’
‘You have. Well, stop it. You know what your doctor said. You should get out of the office and down to the executive gym.’
‘Sure thing, Julia. I’ll start tomorrow.’
She sucked on her lower lip, a bashfulness that wasn’t entirely artificial. ‘Uncle Horace.’
‘Oh, my God. How much is this going to cost?’
‘Nothing. Um, I need a sort of favour.’
‘You owe me fifteen.’
‘Can we go for sixteen?’
He rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘You don’t want to meet another actor, do you? Some of my guests still ain’t talking to me after that party.’
There was a warm tingling in her cheeks at the memory. She was sure she hadn’t been as tipsy as everyone said. ‘No, Uncle Horace,’ she said firmly. ‘Definitely no more actors. Do you remember Greg and Eleanor Mandel?’
‘Sure, who could forget Eleanor? Greg seemed like a nice guy, on the level. Psychic, right?’
‘Yes. I’ve asked him to assist the police working on the Edward Kitchener murder case.’
He frowned, fleshy wrinkles deepening around his eyes. ‘You’re involved with that?’
‘Event Horizon had a research contract with Kitchener. Right now I’m praying that isn’t the reason behind his death. Greg will find out for me.’
‘I see.’
‘But the press are giving him a hard time.’
‘Now come on, Julia.’
‘I don’t want them to stop reporting the case,’ she said hurriedly. ‘If they could just lay off badgering Greg. He didn’t want to take the case in the first place. And you know he doesn’t play the political game, he’s too honest. The last thing he needs is the press jumping all over him just for doing his job.’
Horace Jepson sighed resignedly. ‘All right, Julia. I’ll tell the editors to go easy.’
‘Uncle Horace, you’re an angel.’
‘And I’d like you to come to a programme launch party next month.’ He started typing on a keyboard out of the camera’s field of view. ‘Dreamland Nights, it’s called, a ten-part fantasy drama. It’s gonna be big, Julia. This summer’s ratings winner.’
‘I’ll be there. Promise.’
‘Cliff is gonna be organizing it,’ he said hopefully.
Her contented expression never wavered. She was proud of that self-control. ‘That’ll be nice. I haven’t seen him for ages.’ Clifford Jepson was Horace’s son from the first of his four marriages. Julia couldn’t stand the sight of him, he had his father’s drive without any of his father’s charm. It made him come over as brattishly domineering. The trouble was, Uncle Horace had them down as the perfect match, with himself as Cupid.
‘OK, Julia, my staff will squirt the details to your office.’
‘Fine. I’ll look forward to it. And thank you again, Uncle Horace.’
He signed off smiling happily.
Julia pursed her lips in antipathy. She’d solved Eleanor’s grouse; but there was no way she could get out of that bloody launch party now.
7
The interviews were the one part of the case Greg had been dreading. The word association game, watching the way minds reacted to key phrases, was chained too tightly to his army days. It intimated funereal dug-out bunkers, sweating defiant prisoners in torn bloody fatigues, the smell of gun oil and vomit, the high-voltage emotions of hatred and terror, perceptible even to non-psychics. The seemingly limitless brutality which men were capable of.
Even the interview room at Oakham police station was a party to the anamnesis; sombre fawn-coloured walls, a leaden grey desk, acutely curved plastic chairs, scuffed black door. A rectangular conditioning grille emitted an annoying buzzing sound just on the threshold of audibility. Steely light shining through a high window was complemented by a harsh glow from two biolum panels set in the old fluorescent tube recesses in the ceiling. A wide-angle camera was mounted on the wall above the desk, optical cable running down to a twin-crystal AV recording deck.
Greg sat on one side of the desk, Langley and Nevin flanking him. He took out his cybofax and summoned up the list of questions he wanted to ask, then placed it on the desk.
Rosette Harding-Clarke came in, accompanied by her lawyer, Matthew Slater. Since the New Conservatives had been elected, anyone being interviewed by the police was entitled to legal advice, irrespective of whether they were being charged or not. The measure was intended to allay public mistrust of the dodgy practices which the People’s Constables had included in police procedure.
There were three lawyers, out of Oakham’s pool of five, representing the six students. They had objected when he said he wanted to interview the students.
‘You aren’t an official investigating officer,’ Lisa Collier, a matronly fifty-five-year-old, had told him pompously. ‘You have no authority to conduct an interview, certainly not with co-operating witnesses, which is all the students are at this point. And I’m not having my clients subjected to a psychic pr
ivacy invasion. They have a right to silence so they don’t incriminate themselves.’
Greg had simply turned to Vernon Langley. ‘Arrange for a magistrate’s hearing this afternoon. Charge all six students with suspected manslaughter.’ He gave Lisa Collier a thin smile. ‘As a specialist assigned to the investigation I am entitled to sit in on any subsequent questioning of legally detained suspects. And any evidence acquired psychically during those interviews is admissible in court.’
The three lawyers had gone into a huddle, and decided not to call his bluff.
Matthew Slater slotted a matt-black memox crystal into the recording deck, and sat down beside Rosette. She was wearing a black singlet of some glossy fabric, a cropped black jacket with thin white curlicues embroidered on the shoulders, and a short black leather skirt. Her auburn hair was folded in a neat pleat.
She gave Greg a fleeting glance of acknowledgement, completely ignoring the detectives behind him. The whole act informed them that she wasn’t going to be intimidated.
He had to admit she was an impressive girl physically. Nor was there any hint of weakness in her emotional make up.
Langley pushed a memox crystal in the recorder’s free slot, and touched the power stud. ‘Interview with Rosette Harding-Clarke,’ he said formally. ‘Conducted by CID advisory specialist Greg Mandel in the presence of officers Langley and Nevin.’
Matthew Slater leaned forwards. ‘For the record, Miss Harding-Clarke’s participation in this interview is entirely voluntary. She is here because of her wish to help apprehend the killer of Edward Kitchener. And therefore she reserves the right to refuse to answer any question which is not directly applicable to this topic.’
Rosette Harding-Clarke stared straight at Greg, and gave him a lopsided knowing smile. ‘Silence wouldn’t do me any good, would it?’ she said. ‘Not with you. You could strip anything you wanted from me.’
He ordered a low-level secretion from his gland. Her amusement began to impinge on his perception, it bordered on contempt. Rosette looked down on everybody from her own private Olympus.