Penumbra

by Eric Brown

  The Cobra screamed low over violet snow-capped peaks and planed down towards a spreading purple plain.

  ‘We’re heading ever further from our destination,’ Ten Lee said.

  ‘So I’ll bring us down here. Mackendrick?’

  ‘How far from the features?’ the tycoon asked.

  Ten Lee consulted her screen. ‘Two hundred and ten kilometres and counting.’

  ‘Then land,’ Mackendrick ordered. ‘We’ll ride the transporter back to them.’

  They came down blind, the land obscured by driving rain and cloud. Bennett burned the vertical jets and the Cobra hovered, buffeted by the wind, and then came down slowly. Landfall arrived with a gentle bump and Bennett cut the jets. The Cobra ticked and clicked in the silent aftermath of descent.

  ‘Well done, Bennett, Ten Lee,’ Mackendrick said. ‘How does it feel to know you’ve come further than any crewed expedition before?’

  Bennett sat in his couch and considered the fact. It was, he thought, hard to believe.

  Ten Lee was going through the post-flight checks, having given the scene outside the ship barely a glance.

  As Bennett stared, the storm abated and sunlight - no, not sunlight, Bennett reminded himself; the light from the gas giant - illuminated the land with an aqueous glow.

  Mackendrick stepped between the couches and stared through the viewscreen. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘How beautiful.’

  They had come down on a plain of short purple grassland between two long mountain ranges. Ahead, the serrated peaks of the northern range stretched off to left and right like massed scimitar blades. Beyond, dominating the landscape with its vast and brooding presence, the banded upper hemisphere of the gas giant - what had Mackendrick called it? Tenebrae? - swelled to fill half the sky.

  Bennett reached over and touched Ten Lee’s arm. She looked up, and he was pleased to see an expression of wonder cross her face.

  * * * *

  10

  One month had passed since the last murder, and Vishwanath, Rana and the rest of the homicide team on the eighth floor were making little headway on the case of the crucifix killings.

  After all the progress she had made on the night of the last murder, she had expected some breakthrough before now. She had checked all the leads she and Vishwanath had made on the case, but had drawn a blank with each. For the past two weeks she had spent every shift tracking down the friends and acquaintances of the dead men. She could have contacted these people via her com-screen, but she had wanted to get away from the confines of the eighth floor, where Naz had initiated a hate campaign against her.

  She suspected it had something to do with the fact that Investigator Vishwanath consulted her on most cases now, valuing her opinion. Naz had had his nose put out in a big way, and hated her in consequence. He made jokes at her expense - the old one about her lack of boyfriends, which she could handle - and other hateful jibes about her lowly origins. ‘Is it true you were a street-kid, Rana?’ he had asked in the staff canteen, surrounded by friends. ‘But you look too fair to be a Dullit.’

  ‘I am not ashamed of where I come from, Naz,’ she had replied with civility. ‘And if I were a Dullit I would be proud of the fact.’

  ‘But that fair skin,’ Naz had persisted. ‘I’ve seen no street-kid so pale! Perhaps you’re a half-caste? Is that it, Rana? Was your mother a whore and your father a European tourist?’

  She’d considered telling him the truth, but knew that he would only ridicule her.

  ‘That must be it!’ Naz had declared with delight. ‘Your mother was a drunken whore. You know what they say - like mother, like daughter.’

  She’d stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She asks me what do I mean? What do you think I mean, Rana? How did you get to the eighth floor so fast? What was the reason for your meteoric rise? Of course, how stupid of me! You slept with Commissioner Singh, and now you’re screwing Investigator Vishwanath. No wonder you have no boyfriends - you have no time.’

  She was pleased, in retrospect, that her coffee cup had been empty, because Naz might have earned himself a scalded face and Rana a reprimand, no matter how bad the provocation.

  She’d considered telling Vishwanath of Naz’s continued baiting, but decided against that course of action. It would only fuel Naz in his belief that she had a special relationship with her commanding officer. She could take his immature jibes; they were, after all, the result of envy.

  That afternoon Rana clipped her com-board to her belt, told Vishwanath that she was going out to interview an acquaintance of the last murder victim, and rode down to the underground car-park. She had requisitioned a squad car, and it was awaiting her when she stepped from the elevator. She gave the driver the address and, as the car made its way through the noisy crowds that flowed down the streets with little regard for their safety, she sat back and regarded the screen of her com-board.

  She had checked on the origin of the cloth fibres discovered at three of the crime scenes. Of course, there was always the possibility that the fibre had nothing to do with the killer, but, as was the nature of homicide investigations, that possibility had to be positively disproved before being dismissed. She had discovered that the cloth was imported from the colony planet of Madrigal, that it was made into expensive suits by an esteemed firm of Bombay tailors, and that both suits and cloth were extremely rare. She made a note to remind herself to look into the possibility that the killer was an off-worlder with a taste for designer clothing.

  The car plunged into shadow as it eased down a narrow alley in the old sector of the city. Rana switched off her board and peered through the side window. The buildings on either side of the alley were ancient concrete tenements connected by illegal electricity leads and washing lines flying pennants of old clothing beaten colourless in the shallows of the nearby Ganges. Pot-bellied infants in nothing but shorts stared at her with kohl-rimmed eyes, and the occasional stoic cow barred the way, watching Rana with eyes just as devoid of curiosity.

  At the third bovine obstruction, she leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Ah-cha. I’ll walk from here. No problem.’

  She squeezed from the car and eased her way past the stolidly chewing cow, peering at the grey walls for the street names stencilled in sky-blue Hindi script.

  She had extracted the name of Mohammed Iqbal from an acquaintance of Ali Bhakor. Iqbal, she had been told, was a business associate of Bhakor’s. The acquaintance would say no more. Further enquiries from police records elicited the fact that Iqbal was a known small-time drug dealer who had worked for Bhakor from time to time. His was the very last name on Rana’s list of people to interview.

  Iqbal lived on the fifth floor of a crumbling grey tenement. The building was so old that it had no elevator, and Rana had to walk up the five flights of concrete stairs. She eventually found Iqbal in a room barely big enough to contain his bulk. Fortunately the rickety door was already open, for Rana was sure he would have refused to let her enter.

  He was sitting cross-legged on a soiled white mattress on the floor, smoking what smelled like hashish in an ornately painted water-pipe. His eyes, already squeezed between rolls of fat, narrowed even further when he saw Rana. ‘Who are you?’ he snapped. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Are you Mohammed Iqbal?’ she asked. His over-filled face resembled the pix Rana had copied from records.

  He muttered, ‘What if I am? What if I’m not?’

  ‘If you’re not, then you must be his twin brother.’ She tossed the pix into his lap.

  He glanced at it and grunted. ‘What do you want?’

  She pulled off her boots, stepped over the threshold, and seated herself on the mattress before him. ‘The answers to a few questions. I have no interest in whatever business you’re conducting here—’

  He spread gargantuan palms in a pathetic pantomime of innocence. ‘For one full year I have touched nothing more than hashish, and then only for medicinal purposes. I am ast
hmatic.’

  ‘My condolences. As I said, I’m not interested in drugs.’

  ‘You are not another crawling narcotic agent who wants rupees to keep her silence?’ Watching her, he took a deep lungful of hashish, retained it and then exhaled a dragon’s breath of grey smoke towards her.

  Rana was determined not to cough. ‘I’m from Homicide, Iqbal, and I can’t be bought off.’

  His hooded eyes regarded her as he lazily scratched a nose the size of a samosa. He grunted a laugh. ‘They send a young girl to question me now! I am insulted. What do you want?’

  ‘I understand you knew the businessman Ali Bhakor?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘When was the last time you spoke to Bhakor?’

  He turned his palm in a lazy gesture of consideration. ‘Now let me see . . . it would be, yes, perhaps five weeks ago. He came around to share a pipe.’

  Five weeks ago . . . one week before his murder.

  ‘Can you tell me if he had arranged to meet anyone at the Hindustan Plaza hotel on the evening of the sixth of July?’

  Iqbal shook his head. ‘He does not discuss his business deals with me.’

  ‘Did he mention making any new acquaintances of late?’

  Iqbal regarded her, something unpleasant in his eyes. He gripped his obscenely fat big toes and used them to haul himself forward. ‘Officer, Bhakor is a man who juggles many fire-brands. He does not shout about his business for fear of dropping them, or burning his hands.’

  Rana watched Iqbal as she said, ‘Ali Bhakor was murdered on the evening of the sixth of July at the Hindustan Plaza hotel. He was shot in the head with a laser charge.’

  She disliked the way his every movement, his every gesture, was conditioned and limited by his corpulence, but she was sure his reaction, minimal though it was, was genuine: his slit eyes widened fractionally. He had not known before now of his friend’s death.

  ‘I was expecting a call . . . We meet every five or six weeks for a pipe and conversation.’

  ‘I’m sorry I had to break it to you like this. It is an unpleasant affair. I’m doing my best to get to the bottom of it. I would appreciate every little bit of help I can get.’

  Iqbal inclined his elephantine head. ‘Ah-cha. Of course.’

  ‘Did Bhakor mention anything, anything at all, that might suggest who he was meeting that night?’

  Iqbal leaned forward and stanchioned his head on all ten fingers and thumbs, a dramatic gesture of total concentration.

  He looked up with a swiftness totally out of character. ‘Why ... he did say something. I am sure it meant nothing.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Rana said.

  Iqbal adjusted the white lace skullcap on the summit of his bald head. ‘I don’t know if it will help, but he did say that he might have an interesting business deal with a certain . . . contact.’

  Rana stared at him. ‘A contact?’

  ‘That is what he said. He had met him once. The man was offering to supply Ali with a quantity of high-grade slash at a cut-rate price. He referred only to the dealer as the Man in the Black Suit.’

  ‘The Man in the Black Suit,’ Rana repeated.

  ‘A very expensive black suit, woven from a bright material Ali had never seen before. The man looked rich. Ali said that he was considering the deal.’

  Rana stared at the bulbous water-pipe standing between the callused soles of the man’s feet. She felt something flutter in her chest, told herself not to feel too excited, yet. It was nothing more than another lead, one of many.

  ‘Are you sure he said nothing else about this man? How old he might be? His nationality?’

  Iqbal shook his head. ‘I am truly sorry. He mentioned the man briefly in passing, and then only as the Man in the Black Suit.’

  Rana nodded. ‘That might be helpful, anyway.’ She stood and paused by the door. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Would you care to join me in a pipe, officer?’

  Rana smiled. ‘While I’m on duty, Iqbal? I think not.’

  Iqbal gave a sly smile of disappointment. ‘So goodbye, and may Allah go with you.’

  Rana hurried down the narrow staircase and made her way to the car. She slipped into the back seat and said to the driver, ‘Do you know a good tailor?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror.

  ‘Please take me to Calcutta’s most expensive tailor.’

  He gave Rana an odd look and spoke hurriedly into his communicator. Seconds later he turned to her. ‘Ah-cha. I’ll take you to Nazruddin’s, yes?’

  The car started up and edged through the alleyway. Monsoon clouds were gathering to the east, great blue thunderheads stacked over the sea. Seconds later the deluge began, drumming on the roof of the car.

  Rana sat back and considered what a break this might be, so early in her career on the eighth floor. But no, it was too much to hope for - that her last interview should provide the clue. But wasn’t it often the case? The very last key of a bunch was the one that opened the door; the last bazaar tried had the finest papayas - as if all along fate had been tempting you to give in and abandon your search.

  They entered the relatively new district of the city, the business sector boasting skyscrapers and the latest poly-carbon architecture, domes and ziggurats and pyramids, like something from a travel brochure for the colonies. The driver parked the car outside a double-fronted store with a platoon of mannequins in the window dressed in the latest fashions.

  Rana jumped from the car and sprinted through the downpour and into Nazruddin’s.

  At the sight of her uniform, the manager ushered her into a back room, fearful of what his customers might think. ‘How might I be of help?’

  ‘Do you stock sabline, a material produced on Madrigal?’

  The manager blinked. ‘You wish to make a purchase?’ he asked. ‘You see, I’m sure that on the salary of’ - he glanced at her stripes - ‘a Lieutenant—’

  ‘I’m here on police business.’ She showed her ID card. ‘Rana Rao. Homicide. Now—’

  ‘Sabline. Of course. We are the oldest established tailors in Calcutta, after all.’

  ‘Have you recently sold suits made from the material?’

  The manager laughed. ‘Suits? My dear, we have never sold suits of sabline. Do you have any idea of the expense? Please . . .’

  He gestured for her to follow him, and moved along an aisle between racked garments. He came to a series of thin drawers extending all the way up the wall, positioned a pair of step ladders and pulled out a drawer high above Rana’s head. He descended with a slim box perhaps the size of a pix album. With a flourish he lifted the lid. Within folds of tissue was a cravat or neckerchief with the lustre of midnight made tangible.

  The manager said, ‘Go on, feel it.’

  Rana reached out and touched the sabline neckerchief. It was as soft as down, finer even than silk. She wanted to lift it from the box and bury her face in its heavenly folds.

  ‘Sabline is manufactured from the pelt of an animal native to Madrigal,’ the manager told her. ‘These animals shed their pelts only once a lifetime - the sabline is damaged if taken from a dead animal. It is ludicrously expensive. For example, this cravat . . . what do you think?’

  ‘A thousand rupees?’ Her wage for a month.

  ‘Six thousand would be nearer the mark. A suit. . .’ He shook his head. ‘There is no demand for sabline suits, unfortunately. You would be talking about a figure approaching two hundred thousand rupees. The material is hard-wearing. A suit is guaranteed to last the lifetime of its owner without deterioration.’

  Rana ran her fingers through the material for the last time. ‘Do you know if any tailor in India sells sabline suits?’

  ‘Well, the tailors of Bombay have manufactured sabline suits in the past, but only for the fabulously rich.’ He shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard of one being made for years.’

  He replaced the lid and slipped the box b
ack into its drawer, and Rana thanked him and returned to the car.

  She arrived back at headquarters as the monsoon rains were letting up. The sun was setting in glorious strata of tangerine and jade green, like an aerial representation of the Indian flag, and the ad-screens were climbing into the dusk sky. Vishwanath was off duty and so, thankfully, was Naz.

  Only Varma was at her desk, like some overweight Hindu deity guarding the amassed knowledge of the files. She glanced at her watch as Rana passed her desk. ‘I thought you went off duty two hours ago?’

  ‘Working on a lead, Varma,’ Rana said and hurried on.

  At her desk she activated the com-screen and wrote a report detailing her findings: the discovery of traces of sabline at three of the murder scenes, and Iqbal’s testimony that Ali Bhakor was dealing with a man in an expensive black suit. Tenuous, she thought, but at least it was a lead.