Great North Road

by Peter F. Hamilton

  ‘By whom?’ Charmonique Passam enquired.

  ‘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 spoke 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 which government – YOU – give 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 Defence 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 north-east of Newcastle’s city centre, 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 which surrounded it. In summer it was well used, providing people a pleasant refuge from their hectic lives: families had day-long picnics, runners chased over its rolling grass, lads played football, and kids flew their remote minibugs and planes and copters, buzzing innocent bystanders and dodging the wardens. In winter, visitors fell off dramatically. Now, after weeks of snow and constant sub-zero 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 metres 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 centre of a human city without anyone noticing. But here it was, a featureless, thirty-metre-high stealth-black bubble cone, with five broad circular rings around its midsection – like curled-up wings – containing sections of the lightwave drive thrusters which 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 centre of the fuselage belly itself pressed against the fluffy white blanket. A rectangular airlock door dissolved, and a short aluminium 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 airlock door shimmered back to existence. With a brief show of reluctance, Rebka double-looped her wide woollen scarf round her head, pulled on a bright-purple beret, and started walking through the swirling snow towards the road. They’d covered less than fifty metres 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 snowploughs 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 back seat, 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.

  Tuesday 15th January 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 for ever.

  ‘So what was it last night?’ Jacinta asked as she rummaged round 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 got home until gone midnight; after the meeting with O’Rouke he’d spent hours with Elston, reading through the HDA briefing, then returning the favour by bringing Elston up to date on the team’s case files and proposed avenues of enquiry.

  ‘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 round for a clean shirt and socks.

  *

  It was porridge again for breakfast. The snow had stopped some time 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 cafetière 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 centimetres.

  ‘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 catalogue 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 catalogue, 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.’

  ‘I get it,’ Will said with a grump.

  Sid grinned. If anyone ever found a way to download a person, Will’s generation would dive headfirst down the fibre optic cable, never questioning.

  ‘I’ll set it up for the weekend,’ Jacinta said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You will be around, won’t you?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘I’ll be here.’ He smiled at the kids. ‘And I’m taking you to school today.’

  *

  Vance Elston was waiting in the Office3 when Sid arrived at eight fifteen, well ahead of the team. He introduced Ralph Stevens who, apart from having Nordic-pale skin and thinning blond hair, seemed like a junior version of Elston himself. Sid started to wonder how many years he’d have to hang around either of them to see a single smile.

  That sombre manner they both possessed was immediately picked up by the team as they arrived in the office. They turned up gripping their take-away cups of coffee or tea – in Eva’s case, hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows – smiling and chattering, speculating on what was going to happen today, and how tough the new ‘supervisor’ would be. Then they caught sight of Elston and Stevens in the midst of their masters-of-misery act. Smiles blanked out and the chatter muted.

  It wasn’t a complete surprise to Sid when he saw Aldred turn up with Abner and Ari; after all, if anyone was going to take this seriously it would be the Norths. He waited until everyone was inside Office3 and the blue seal came on before starting the briefing. There were two additions to the team, which he’d arranged with Human Resources after last night’s meeting: Constable Dedra Foyster and Constable Reannha Hall, both data-analysis specialists with high security clearance ratings. A clearance which had subsequently been checked and approved by HDA. Ralph had told him that. It was about the only thing he had said so far.

  ‘Good morning,’ Vance said formally. ‘I’m sorry for the delay and confusion yesterday, and I thank you for your tolerance. This briefing will explain everything.’ He walked over to a zone console and made a show of putting a chip in. The big central wallscreen flashed up file symbols that Sid hadn’t seen before. They didn’t open.

  Sid saw Ian and Eva give each other a schoolkid grin.

  ‘Can you . . .’ Vance said to Abner.

  Abner went over to the zone console. ‘Sure thing.’ The screen curved round him, and his hands hovered in the keyspace flicking at icons only he could see.

  Nothing much happened. The chip’s files remained stubbornly closed.

  Sid waited with growing embarrassment. Abner even seemed to be having trouble with his own operating topography system, and as to resolving the format problem . . . It was going to reflect badly on Sid.

  ‘What program is this?’ Abner asked lamely.

  Sid gave Reannha Hall an urgent gesture.

  ‘It was recorded twenty years ago,’ Vance said as Reannha sat down at the console next to Abner. Manicured fingers speed-flipped icons. ‘Here you go,’ she said as the file symbols on the wallscreen mutated to familiar modern symbols. ‘They just needed a reformat, that’s all.’

  Abner’s face was blank as he gave her a tight smile.

  ‘Right then,’ Vance said, reclaiming the briefing. ‘The reason this case is now the most important event on the planet is because the murder method
has been used precisely once before. You will not know this, because it was classified and not released into the public domain. How many of you are familiar with the name Angela Tramelo?’

  Forewarned after last night, Sid was watching Abner and Ari. Both of them stiffened with shock. He wasn’t surprised, since the name had triggered a whole bunch of neural connections which sent coldsparks trickling down his own spine.

  Ian looked like he didn’t give a shit, while Eva frowned thoughtfully. ‘Wasn’t she the, oh—’ She broke off and gave the Norths a guilty look.

  ‘Angela Tramelo was convicted of murdering Bartram North, and thirteen of his household,’ Vance said. ‘The atrocity was committed in one night, twenty-one years ago in Bartram’s mansion on St Libra.’

  One of the file icons migrated to a wallscreen and decompressed into a matrix of thumbnail pictures. Vance expanded the first. Sid tried not to grimace at the raw carnage it illustrated. The body was that of an older North, sprawled across the marble floor of some grandiose room, clothes saturated in blood, with yet more blood pooling around it. Another body was visible, lying crumpled across the sofa behind it. The image switched, showing a close-up of the kill wound: a fingerblade stab pattern above the heart. More wound pictures: long, deep slash marks across arms and backs, always running in parallel. Defensive wounds, Sid thought.

  ‘As well as Bartram and six of his sons, three of Bartram’s girlfriends were slaughtered along with four of his staff.’ The screen began to slideshow the bodies. ‘Bartram North kept a stable of between three and five girls living with him at the mansion at any one time. They were recruited mainly from Earth. Angela Tramelo was one of them. She was caught at the Newcastle gateway two days later as she attempted to flee. Three months after that she was tried in London and found guilty: life sentence. No remission and no parole.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Ian said. ‘Has she escaped?’

  Vance shook his head. ‘I wish. No, she was secure in Holloway Prison at the time your victim was murdered. She’s been there for twenty years; never been allowed to set foot outside the walls.’