I FILL THE kettle from the bathroom sink and switch it on, trying to work out where Travis fits into it all. Why come and beg to be interviewed if he was involved? Does he want me to think he’s guilty?
Either way, the data can’t be ignored. He’s still lower priority than Theo and seems to have no desire to leave the hotel. In fact, he seemed much more interested in being forced to stay.
I ping Constable Riley and ask him to make sure Travis Gabor doesn’t leave the hotel and to keep a record of his movements. Tia is already tracking all activity going through the local node as standard and will continue to do so until I lift the status of “crime scene under investigation.” I make a note in the case file that Travis will be interviewed and a recommendation that the information about his search behavior be kept from his husband. Any hint of a potential scandal and Gabor will try to shut this thread of the investigation down faster than I could say “billionaire bastard.”
I dunk the tea bag in a cup of hot water, watching the brown cloud spill from it. I think about Alejandro making that chamomile tea and try to imagine any other reason he’d want to drug Selina. I don’t think for a moment it was attempted murder; he had enough capsules to do that and with the drug being masked by the tea, she wouldn’t have been able to taste a higher dose.
I picture Alejandro in the main room of the suite, her in the bath, him breaking the capsules open and tipping them into the cup. If I were him, why would I want to keep her asleep so deeply she couldn’t hear anything?
The image of the severed rope hanging from the light fixture flashes and I push it away. No. Something else could have happened before that point. Perhaps he planned to leave and didn’t want her to wake and find he hadn’t come to bed yet. Or perhaps someone else was coming to see him there in the suite, away from the public spaces and their cameras.
Travis, maybe?
I squeeze out the bag, drop it in the bin and find fresh milk in the tiny fridge hidden away in a cupboard. There are bottles of booze in there too and various snacks. Just as I’m replacing the milk there’s a notification that new data has arrived.
“What is it, Tia?”
“Blood-test results for Selina Klein are in. Zopadril, a heavy sedative drug licensed for use in the United States, was detected at levels above the recommended dose. The doctor has appended a note, stating that it’s his belief that nothing could have woken her properly for at least ten hours since the time of ingestion, and that it accounts for the grogginess observed the following morning. He also recommends that any testimony given regarding events within the first two hours of being woken be treated as unreliable.”
That’s that wrapped up, then. “Remove Selina Klein from the potential suspects list.”
“Done. I have also communicated with the MoJ AI. There is evidence of tampering with the camera footage seized from the local node.”
“This is my unsurprised face,” I say. “Anything else said about it?”
“The footage has been referred to the specialist team for human review.”
“Something unusual must have been flagged up, then. Any idea when they’ll feed back?”
“No estimates have been provided. Average response times during periods with comparable caseloads range from twenty-four to forty-eight hours. As the priority tag has been retained, a reasonable estimate would be between twelve and twenty-four hours.”
Someone deliberately removed the images of whoever went into that room after Selina and Alejandro retired for the night. Whether it’s the same person who went in there and murdered him or just an accomplice remains to be seen.
“Tia, does Travis Gabor have any technical training that could enable him to tamper with that footage?”
“Travis Gabor was an employee of a digital-security firm for a period of nine months, three days following his graduation from Cambridge University.”
He’s the first person in the case file with the potential to have the relevant skills. “Oh fuck,” I say, regretting that stupid outburst before. “Ping Milsom for me. Tell her I need to meet with her in my MoJ server space.”
It’s more secure than having a conversation here and I need to see her face when I tell her. She agrees and within minutes I’m back in the virtual Diamond Suite. She’s already there, standing at the edge of the room, hands in her pockets.
“So what’s rattled you?”
“Let’s talk in there,” I say, pointing to the bedroom, and she follows without a word. I shut the bedroom door behind us, blocking off the view of the carnage. “I want to talk to you . . . as close to off the record as I can.”
“That bad?”
I nod. “I don’t mind this being on the MoJ server—I just don’t want it to end up as evidence outside.”
“Okay. I’ll see to it, if I think it’s necessary.”
“It’s Gabor’s trophy husband. He was digitally stalking Alejandro Casales for months before he had his chip removed—removed for a reason that sounds flaky as hell. He’s the only person in the frame who could have the skills to tamper with the video cameras in the lift and corridor outside the crime scene.”
“Oh shit,” Milsom groans. “This is the last thing we need.”
“It’s early days, and Travis Gabor isn’t trying to evade investigation. I only prodded because things seemed weird when I met him at breakfast. He asked to be interviewed last. I’ll add that conversation to the case file, now it could be relevant. I just wanted to flag it up with you, since it looks like it’s going to turn into something.”
“It’s turning into another splinter in my arse—that’s what it’s turning into,” Milsom mutters. Then she looks at me. “You were right to do that. I’ll go and speak to legal, see if they can isolate the investigation data so none of Gabor’s lawyers can start weaseling their way in before any charges are made. I’ll go and brief the commissioner too. She needs to know what’s ahead.”
“Should I keep it out of the interim report?”
She considers it for a few seconds. “No, you have to put it in. He’s on the suspect list now. We’re legally obligated to report everything to the parties at that meeting last night. If it came out later that we held something back from the first report, we’d be fucked. It’s not ideal, but they are legally bound to keep it all confidential, so we just have to hope the investigation wraps before any of them are tempted to tip off the Gabors that Travis is in the frame.”
“Stefan Gabor must have multiple business interests with all three gov-corps,” I say. “There could be some conflicts of interest ahead.”
“There always are when you deal with people like that,” Milsom replies, a grim set to her jaw. “No getting away from it. The best way to handle this is to do a flawless job as quickly as possible, okay?”
I nod.
“So, what does your gut tell you, seeing as we’re speaking candidly here?”
That damn word comes back to me again and I know I have to tell her, for the same reason I can’t keep Gabor out of the interim report: it could come back to bite me later if I hide it any longer. “I think there’s a real chance we’re looking at a suicide and subsequent mutilation of the body.”
I’ve never seen Milsom look genuinely shocked before. It’s disconcerting. “How much of a chance?”
I pause, not wanting to paint myself into a corner. I don’t want to put a number on it; it’s just where my gut is pulling me. No. There’s no way he’d do that. No way. I’m probably just missing a piece of the puzzle and I bet Theodore Buckingham has it. “I . . . I’m just saying that this isn’t shaping up to be a straightforward murder case,” I finally say.
She nods slowly, and I think through what I just said, hoping I’ve covered my bases well enough. “Any other bombs you need to drop?”
“No, ma’am,” I say. “But there is one thing . . .” I check to see how hostile she looks and judge that this is as good a time as any to ask. “I put in a request to legal earlier, to get Gabor’s data.”
Milsom folds her arms. “Go on.”
“Well, the way I put it to my APA wasn’t as polite as the wording that arrived with the lawyers. If this thing with Gabor pans out and . . .”
“You’re worried you could look bad?”
“Yeah. I took a dislike to Stefan Gabor and it . . . may come across, should that exchange with my APA come out in judicial review.”
Milsom smirks. “Not like you to make a mistake, Carlos.” She lets me fret for a few seconds before saying, “I’ll pull it—don’t worry. I don’t want it to cause any strife either. Now get back to work and contain this shit storm as quick as you can.”
She disappears, not bothering to maintain the internal reality of the simulation. When I come back to my body my guts start cramping as my mental state is fully reconnected to my body again. The stress of confessing my mistake to Milsom makes me shake. She didn’t mention any mark against me in my file. That doesn’t mean she won’t put one there. A black mark puts another year on my contract. Three black marks and they’ll send me in for “calibration.” I shudder at the thought of it. Like all expensive property, I’m kept in good working order.
I sit up and perch on the edge of the bed. I hold my palm in front of me and move it downward slowly, breathing out, pushing it all down. The case is the most important thing to worry about right now.
“A message arrived while you were immersed,” Tia tells me. “From Dr. Palmeston, the pathologist assigned to the case. She says that her preliminary report is ready and you are welcome to visit her at the lab.”
“Tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
—
CONSTABLE Riley gives me a lift over to the outskirts of Newton Abbot, where the pathologist’s lab is. Riley chatters about the case, brimming with an enthusiasm I just can’t muster. The lab is just like every other I’ve ever been in: spotlessly clean, clinically intimidating and brightly lit. The only thing this one has that I haven’t seen anywhere else is a fish tank. It jars me as I enter the pathologist’s lair, the tiny flashes of blue and bright purple catching my eye as the fish dart from one side of the tank to the other. There’s a plastic treasure chest belching bubbles every few seconds and a model diver tangled in the underwater plants.
A misshapen body is covered by a sheet on one of three slabs and the two others are empty. Standing next to it, absorbed in a virtual task I can’t see, is a white woman in her late fifties, just below six feet tall, her gray hair cut into short spikes and the tips dyed red to match her lipstick. She’s wearing a white lab coat, buttoned up, leaving only a pair of burgundy trousers in sight and glittering red boots wrapped in the same plastic covers I wore over my own shoes earlier. Her profile has its privacy settings dialed high, so all I get is her name, Dr. Linda Palmeston, and confirmation of her position as head pathologist for the region.
“I would have gotten to it earlier,” she says, still with her gaze in that strange middle distance where her APA interface sits. “Only some bloody conker slashed my tires and I had to change them. Little shits who live at the farm down the road. I got them on camera this time though. Just finishing up here, then I’ll be with you.”
“What car do you drive?”
“Car?” She wrinkles her nose, making the tip of it look sharper and more pronounced. “Bike. Vintage Ducati.” She grins. “Gives me more pleasure than my husband ever did.”
I wasn’t expecting a bike. Vintage motorcycles are rare and require special licenses obtained after high-level driving and safety exams, seeing as they don’t have an AI to take over should there be any need. Only the most dedicated bother with them these days.
“I knew someone who rode a Harley,” I say.
The nose wrinkles again. “Old man’s bike. Can’t see the sense in sitting back like that with your arms in the air like some pillock. I mean, if you’re going to drive an armchair, at least be comfortable.” She blinks a few times and looks at me properly. “Well, hello at last. Sorry about that. Just wanted to get some tests set up for the stuff I’ll be doing this afternoon.”
“Dr. Palmeston—”
“Call me Linda, for Christ’s sake.” She looks at my face and then up and down my body. “An SDCI, eh? All the way from London. Well, aren’t I honored?”
I smile at the sparkle in her eyes. “Not in the least. Call me Carl. You said you had a preliminary report ready?”
“That I did. I like a man who gets straight to the point. Alex called me earlier, said you knew the victim.”
I nod.
She moves over to the top of the slab and takes hold of the sheet. “This isn’t going to be easy, no matter how toughened you are. If it’s too much, just say. I’ll keep it as quick as I can.”
I appreciate her sensitivity, but it still embarrasses me. “I’ve seen the body in a VR sim, as it was found.”
“Never the same as seeing it here,” she says. “I closed his eyes, if that helps.”
“Let’s just get this done.”
She pulls back the sheet and I see Alejandro’s face for the first time. I’m glad she closed his eyes. The waxy skin, the butchered neck and gap between it and the top of his torso are bad enough. I can’t stop my eyes from moving down his body, seeing the other gaps caused by the mutilation. His genitals are shrunken and don’t even look real, more like something crudely shaped and stuck on the outside of his body with macabre absurdity. His legs are tilted onto their sides without any attachment to the body to hold them in place, pulled over by the feet.
“The victim was hanged and died from asphyxiation caused by the cord around his throat. You can see the petechiae on his face here around the mouth and eyes. The blood has drained somewhat but there was also the telltale discoloration and congestion picked up by the recorders that fits with that too. Now, here”—she tilts his head to the side and points to a place on his neck—“is where you can see a textbook inverted-V bruise on the neck, caused by the cord. This tells me it’s not strangulation.”
I nod. “Otherwise it would be a straight line.”
“Bonus points to the SDCI. Now, there’s no way for me to tell if he was unconscious, strung up and then died or if it was suicide, but I know there was a chair at the scene he could have used. No note found, I take it?”
“No. But evidence one might have been written and removed from the scene.”
She nods. “I wouldn’t bet either way yet, if I were you. But, if you’re a betting man, like Alex is, I would say suicide. There’s no head trauma, so he wasn’t knocked out first, and no signs of any struggle. Now, I still need to look at the organs and do a full workup, so he might have been drugged, but he’s a big guy. Six foot four, weighs a hundred eighty-three pounds. That’s a lot of weight to get into that position without some sort of pulley.”
“There’s no evidence of one,” I say.
“Of course, someone could have had a gun on him,” she says, “to force him to hang himself, but if they did, they didn’t tie his feet or his hands once he was in the noose.”
“Okay. Anything else turn up?”
“Nothing beneath the fingernails or on the hands except for trace amounts of Zopadril powder.”
“I’ve spoken to Alex about that. He drugged the woman he was sharing the room with.”
“Ah, so I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s not in his system—that’s good to know. That was an outside chance I had in mind—his being drugged, then somehow hoisted up.” She shrugs. “If nothing else crops up in the rest of the autopsy, I would say it was a straightforward suicide followed by the obvious mutilation of the body.” Linda pauses, glances up at me and then back down at the body. “I did check for any sexual activity or signs of rape. There aren’t any.”
I press my lips together for a moment, then ask, “Is the murder window still accurate?”
“Yes. Some point between eleven p.m. on Sunday night and two the following morning. If those bloody lawyers hadn’t kept us out, I could have been more accurate, but that’s the best I can do with the information I have.”
I nod, and seeing that I haven’t got anything to add about the lawyers, she carries on.
“Alex sent over the details about that missing ax and it matches with the cuts left in the body around the joints that were severed. If you look here”—she points to a cut in the left hip—“you can see where the ax bearer missed the mark and swung wide. From the mess he or she made, I’d suggest they weren’t used to using one. I think they started with the right leg—there are more cuts and failed attempts on that side. Then the other leg, right arm, left arm then head last. I’m only going by the number of failed cuts, you understand, and blood spatters. With the victim already dead at the time of the cutting up—thank goodness—there aren’t any other physiological markers I can go by.”
“Anything else you can tell me about the ax wielder?”
“Maybe later. I’m going to map all of the cuts into the VR autopsy suite and run some simulations. I should be able to give you an approximation of their strength and a decent crack at which hand he or she favors.”
“So you think a woman could have done that?”
She smirks at me. “I’d be able to. It was a sharp ax. There was obviously some passion behind it. Keep an open mind.”
She draws the sheet back over the body and I feel a palpable physical relief.
“Tea before you go?”
I shake my head. “I’d love to but I’ve got to get an interim report to my boss as soon as I can.”
“You can use the room through there to do that.” She points to a door beside the fish tank. “It’s got a good sofa. I’m making myself a cuppa anyway.” She comes round to my side of the slab and gently guides me toward it. “I’ve got some gingerbread too. I make it myself. I’ll get you some.”
My lips and fingertips are tingling. It’s chilly in here, and as I let her steer me I appreciate just how cold it is for the first time. I start to shiver. “Well, if there’s gingerbread,” I say as my teeth start to chatter. “I’ll stay for one cup.”