THE GROUNDS OF the hotel are divided between neatly manicured formal gardens close to the building and a few acres of meadows and woodland. I stand at the back door as I button up my coat, acclimatizing to the crisp air and taking in the various paths I can choose to walk. Tia lays out a route to the gardener’s shed with a pale blue line overlaid across my vision, and a second in purple directing me to the log the ax had been left in before it was stolen. I follow the purple one first and it takes me through a geometrically patterned formal garden made of clipped box hedges that come up to my knees, gravel paths and flower beds lying fallow for the winter. In just over two minutes at a very leisurely pace I reach the fallen tree on the other side of a bigger path that leads residents round the edge of the woods toward the nearest meadow. Most of the branches have been lopped off. Tia highlights the indentation left by the ax, taken from the constable’s report.
I turn and look back toward the hotel. Theo’s room overlooks this side and he could have seen the groundskeeper working on the tree from his window. It’s also in full view of any of the second- and third-floor rooms on this side though, and the restaurant. Any of the guests could have seen that ax left here.
“Looks like the sun is going to come out after all.” An unfamiliar male American drawl comes from behind me.
I turn and see a tall, broad-shouldered man with sandy blond hair and the kind of large, square jaw I’d expect from across the pond. Tia takes a beat longer than usual to pull up a profile that is irritatingly sparse. Mark Collindale, USA. His privacy settings must be dialed up very high to evade an MoJ check. A line is added, pulled from the local node, detailing that he checked into the hotel at six a.m. today. Either way, his chip will have given him the standard MoJ conversation-recording warning.
“Maybe. Can I help you?”
“I’m the liaison from the US gov-corp. I’m here to help in whatever way I can.”
I don’t believe that for an instant. He’s nothing more than a sanctioned spy, here to check up on the investigation in the absence of the lawyers. “Some confirmation of that would be useful.” I wait while he looks away and a confirmation-of-identity ping comes through to Tia, who verifies it with the MoJ. “I submitted my interim report earlier,” I reply. “I take it you’ve read it?” When he nods, I add, “So you know I have all the support I need from the local authorities.”
“Walk with me?” He gestures down the path, toward the meadow. The last thing I want to do is talk to this guy, but I daren’t risk a complaint to Milsom that I’ve been uncooperative.
“I don’t have long,” I say, trying to manage expectations as politely as possible. “You understand that there’s a lot to follow up on.”
He starts off away from the house. I feel short walking next to him, and I’m just under six feet tall. He isn’t dressed like a thug, even though he has the body of one. His coat is black cashmere, very expensive, the scarf a muted tartan and his trousers a dark charcoal gray. His black brogues aren’t suitable for anything other than gravel and concrete paths, so I doubt we’ll walk anywhere other than the formal garden.
“Your interim report just presented the facts,” he says, looking ahead.
“It’s too early for speculation,” I reply.
“But I’d value your opinion. You’re very experienced and knew the victim. You have more insights than you put in the report, I’m certain.”
This is not a conversation I want to have, let alone be recorded and later pulled apart by lawyers if something goes wrong. I’m used to answering questions without giving too much away—I learned that pretty damn fast once I left the Circle—but he wouldn’t be here unless he wanted something specific. I don’t have time for these games anyway. “Is there something you’re worried about?”
“‘Worried’ is a strong word.”
I sigh and leave the silence to tease something out for me, as Dee taught me so long ago.
“Any lesser investigation would be drawing conclusions already,” Collindale says, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolls. “I’m glad you haven’t been speculating about suicide. I imagine that’s because you knew the victim and his beliefs.”
“Why are you glad about that?” I keep my eyes ahead too, as much as I want to watch for his reaction. My instinct is to be careful about eye contact here, but I can’t quite decide why.
“Because it makes it far less likely that you’ll look for evidence that supports that theory and thereby overlook the rest.”
“I run a thorough investigation with every case,” I say, trying to keep pride from tightening my voice. “Regardless of the victims and their beliefs.”
I see him nod from the corner of my eye. “Then you won’t shy away from looking into Gabor further.”
“No.”
“Have you interviewed him yet?”
I bite back a comment about my schedule and priorities being none of his business. “Not yet, no.”
“Then you won’t know that a friend of his husband came to meet the victim in the first week of his stay, and then a second time the day before his death. Someone from a Spanish subsidiary of the European gov-corp.”
I stop and look at him, feeling the sucking pull of muddy inter-gov-corp politics. “I’m sure the victim met with lots of people. That’s why he came over to England. It certainly wasn’t for the weather.”
Collindale smiles, his teeth predictably white and perfect. “I just thought you should know about it, and the fact that Theo Buckingham was spotted meeting with that individual in private too.”
He’s trying to sway me into focusing my investigation down this route. Irritated by this bullshit, I think back to how the conversation started and decide to risk being direct. “Why are you really worried about the possibility of suicide?”
He frowns and turns up his collar. “Looks like the sun isn’t coming out after all,” he says, glancing up at the clouds thickening once more. “I look forward to your next report, SDCI Moreno.”
I stay where I am and watch him go back toward the hotel. It’s no surprise that the gov-corps are starting to look for ways to smear each other, and the US must have hated Europe getting involved right from the start. I’m angered by the fact they’re willing to stoop so low so quickly. Once he’s inside I turn my back on the building so no one can read my lips.
“Tia, note in the case file that the US is worried about the suicide angle.”
“Done. Would you like me to add a transcription of the conversation with Mark Collindale?”
“Yeah, but tag it as something to be excluded from the next interim report.”
“Done.”
I pause before going back into the hotel, thinking about the likely suicide. It would be very much against Alejandro’s beliefs and would go against everything he’s said about it in the past, very publicly. But people change. There are so many things that have cropped up, so many tiny details that have jarred with the memories and internal construct I have of the man, it’s possible this aspect of him had changed too. If it was suicide, what could possibly have happened to outweigh the principles he so firmly held? And why would it bother the US gov-corp enough to have their liaison bring it up with me?
“Tia, don’t request this information from the US gov-corp contact, but how much money does the Circle bring into the States every year?”
“Would you like me to pull the data from an Internet search?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” As long as Collindale doesn’t know I’m looking into this straight after our conversation, it is.
“Drawing upon thirty-five sources with a credibility score between ninety-nine-point-five and ninety-nine-point-eight, it is speculated that the Circle brings approximately five hundred million dollars into the country per year.”
“JeeMuh!” I thought it would be in the thousands. “Where the fuck does all that come from?”
“Thirty-five percent is estimated to be donations from supporters around the world. The remainder is a combination of assets transferred from private estates relinquished to the Circle upon full membership and earnings from patents shared with the US parent gov-corp.”
I think of my dad and the pathetic sum of money he brought with us, having failed to hold down a job for years after his breakdown. Even that tiny amount was something I so desperately needed and yet was denied to me when I left. I don’t realize I’ve balled my fists until the knuckles start to throb. I take a minute to get a handle on the anger before moving on. The case comes first.
“Does the Circle pay taxes?”
“Yes, at the reduced rate for religious organizations: five percent on total yearly income.”
“You mentioned patents. What kind?”
“Would you like me to compile a list of those detailed in the public domain?”
“Yeah.” I walk a little farther down the path and find another log, this one with a shallow depression carved out and smoothed to form a rudimentary seat positioned to take in a view through the gate to the meadow. I perch on it as the data comes in, ordered hierarchically in broad divisions, with the option to drill down. The top-level categories are predominantly engineering disciplines along with energy harvesting and storage.
“And these are patents filed by members of the Circle?”
“Yes. Some transferred along with financial assets upon acceptance into the Circle; some filed during membership.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. They join the Circle to get away from tech, not carry on their research.”
“Would you like me to verify the data with the US gov-corp patent office?”
“No,” I say instinctively. My gut is telling me to go carefully here; it’s clear money has something to do with the US gov-corp’s concerns. Are they worried that if Alejandro committed suicide the Circle would disband and they’d lose that income? No . . . Five hundred million is a lot of money but only a tiny fraction of the numbers they deal in every day. Something to do with these patents, then?
“Urgent call incoming from DS Talbot, head of the manhunt team,” Tia says, and I accept voice contact.
“SDCI Moreno. What is it?”
“Sir, we’ve found Theodore Buckingham. He’s dead.”