I COME BACK into my body to find my throat raw and my ears wet from tears that ran down my face while I was lying down. Full immersion stops me from running around or hitting things while my mind thinks I’m somewhere else, mimicking the brain’s dreaming state, but it can’t stop crying or vomiting. The chip has to leave critical bodily functions like those alone.
For once, I actually lie there for a few minutes, as guidelines suggest. My stomach feels tight and hollow with the need to eat, without any appetite to do so. I have a headache, probably from the knotted muscles in my neck, and my throat feels thick and clogged up like a pipe furred by limescale.
I try to tell myself that nothing has actually changed. I knew he was dead. I already suspected suicide. I still feel shocked though. I didn’t really believe it on some level.
The minutes are ticking away and I need to make a decision. If I report in now, Milsom will close the case. The MoJ doesn’t actually benefit from investigating whether a US citizen really committed suicide, so they’ll wrap that up too. It won’t change anything, after all.
The woman, Arlington, will probably settle the question of who doctored the local node data. She’s long gone, and there’s nothing I can actually do save report her actions and leave the decision to track her internationally up to whoever it was all those pay grades above me who let her leave the country. Something about that stinks, but she didn’t kill him either. The thought of Alejandro’s DNA being sold to the highest bidder sickens me, but there’s always a risk of that when you’re as high profile as he was. I don’t let myself speculate about what the buyer might do with it.
I should file my report and walk away. Selina can go home and try to put herself back together again. The Circle will collapse or evolve. Either way, it makes no difference to me.
But I don’t start the work. I stare at the ceiling, questioning my inertia. I have fewer than five hours and no case to pursue within them. What I really have is freedom, of a sort. No. I can’t even let myself believe that. Even if I spend that time staring out of the window, at some point I’ll have to justify the time spent. If Milsom thinks I just pissed about during an official investigation period, it’ll be a black mark. Five hours being miserable are not worth a year added to my contract, even when those five hours are spent in luxury. I should start the final report.
I get as far as opening my notes before the minuscule motivational spark fizzles out. I don’t want to write the final report because, for me, this isn’t over. I need to know what was in that note. I need to know what drove him to do the one thing I would never have thought him capable of. I need to understand why he said “Send the letter.”
“Tia, pull the transaction data from Alejandro’s London trip and show me the list with time stamps and locations alongside what he paid for.”
He was there for only five days but something critical happened. He met someone or a deal—or an affair—fell through, or something simply didn’t work out the way he needed it to. Selina said that when he got back he seemed preoccupied and wanted lots of time alone. Whatever happened in London put him into some sort of crisis, and perhaps the time alone was to try to work out what to do. When no solution presented itself, he decided it was better to die.
I scan the list Tia presents and it looks like any wealthy man’s trip to London. He stayed at the Savoy and ate there once per day, and the other meals were in a scattering of top-end restaurants within a couple of miles of his hotel. He dined alone, judging by cost of the meals, which I didn’t expect, suggesting that whatever meetings took him up there were the sort that had no room for fine food and wine. Perhaps he wasn’t there to see someone after all. There’s nothing on the hotel bill to suggest he was sharing the room with anyone else, but he or she could have had their own room.
I dig deeper into the data, looking at the individual restaurants without any particular line of inquiry in mind. I look at his first lunch there, unfamiliar with the restaurant name. It specializes in Thai cuisine, which surprises me. I thought he didn’t like it. I look at the dinner he ate on that same day, this time at a place I’ve heard of and always wanted to eat at. He ate the dish they’re famed for: steak with—
Wait. He was vegetarian.
A meat dish is listed in every meal. With the three dinners he had in the city, he had two glasses of expensive wine. He didn’t drink.
I sit up and swing my legs off the bed. Did he even go to London? Is all this data just bullshit?
“Tia, I need you to identify the safety cam that would have covered the entrance to the the White Lotus restaurant in Maiden Lane, Covent Garden. Pull the footage from this time window.” I look up the time stamp for the lunch transaction, work out a reasonable window for him to have arrived and eaten and give the times to Tia.
I have a wash and change my shirt. I need to see Selina again anyway.
“The footage is available for review.”
“Okay, Tia, I need you to run a recognition filter through it and isolate any footage of a man fitting Alejandro Casales’s height entering the restaurant within that time frame.”
I knot my tie, feeling the thrill of another fold of the puzzle being revealed. This is an indulgence: Milsom and the MoJ won’t have any fucks to give about why he committed suicide, but I’m willing to argue that it’s relevant to the case, no matter how flimsy the connection is. It’s not like it’s using extra officers or anything.
Even though Selina is dressed by the time I get to her, she’s still pale and looks far from okay. Her case is on the bed, mostly packed, a new box of tissues sitting beside it.
“Mr. Riley said I might be able to go home soon,” she says as I close the door.
“That’s right,” I say. “I just have a couple of things I need to talk to you about first.”
She sighs, from exhaustion rather than irritation, and nods. “Take a seat.”
We sit in the two armchairs, occasional weak bursts of sunshine poking from behind the clouds. I realize I haven’t eaten lunch yet and the sun is already sinking toward the horizon. I hate November.
“Regarding Alejandro, did he have any special dietary requirements or eating habits?”
She frowns at the question. “How can that be relevant?”
“Please answer the question.”
She shrugs. “He never ate meat, but that wasn’t an allergy thing. It’s part of our commitment to life at the Circle. He didn’t go for very exotic food, but then he ate paella and always laughed at me when I said that was exotic.” Her smile is feeble beneath the weight of her grief. “He didn’t drink at all. I like a glass of wine when I can get one, but generally there isn’t any alcohol at the Circle.”
I nod. “I have something to tell you that will be difficult to—”
“Theo’s dead, isn’t he?”
I sit back, wondering if that came from a fear that had been stewing during her solitude or if somehow it had gotten back to her. “He was found dead, yes. A suspected suicide.”
She nods, her brow creasing as she looks down at her hands in her lap. “I want to cry, but I don’t think I have any of that left in me. Theo was a pain in the ass a lot of the time but he wasn’t a bad person or anything. Did he do that to Alejandro?”
“He was involved, yes.”
She looks up at me. “‘Involved’ is an interesting word to use.”
“I can’t discuss that any further at this time. I’m sorry.”
She nods. “I’m just the girlfriend, I know. Listen, this is an amazing hotel but right now I want to be anywhere but here.”
“I understand. The US authorities will make sure you get back home safely as soon as possible. I just need you to sign an agreement that you won’t disclose any details regarding your trip here or what happened to Alejandro to anyone other than myself or a representative of the Noropean Ministry of Justice.”
“What about if the cops ask me about it back home?”
“They won’t. You’ll be escorted by a liaison who will make sure that no one bothers you.”
“And what about the Circle? They’ll want to know. They’ll need to know.”
I have no idea how the lawyers will want to play that, but they’ll brief Collindale or whomever else they trust to get her home again. “Your US gov-corp liaison will be able to advise you about that on the way home. No doubt as the shock subsides you’ll have a lot of questions. It’s best to direct them to that individual. He or she will be fully briefed.” I stand. “I’m sorry this has been such a traumatic trip for you,” I say, immediately regretting the words. There’s nothing I can say that will sound genuine or anything less than absurdly inadequate.
Nevertheless, she seems to appreciate the clumsy gesture. She stands too and holds out her hand, which I shake. “Thank you for . . .” She trails off.
“I’ll have PC Riley bring you the paperwork. It’s just being printed now.”
She nods, wrapping her arms about herself. “Will this . . . Will it get easier?”
I pause by the door. “It will settle into place. Be less raw. But it will take time. I can have some victim-support literature . . .” This time I don’t finish the sentence. Trotting out some bullshit doesn’t feel right. “It’s going to be hard as hell, for you and for everyone else at the Circle. More for you though, going through what you have here. Get help if you can.”
When I touch the handle she dashes forward and puts a hand on my arm. “I can’t help but . . . It wasn’t my fault, was it? If I’d just woken up a bit sooner, if I . . . if I’d heard something, I . . .”
The sleeve of my jacket crumples under her grip. “It wasn’t your fault, Ms. Klein. I promise.”
“Did Theo do that to him? Why?”
I feel like I’m staggering into quicksand. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate in explaining what happened—she needs to know—but with all the lawyers and nondisclosure clauses in that damn contract I signed, I’m not sure if I can give enough detail to satisfy her. “I’m afraid I’m not able to discuss the details with you. Ask your liaison. I’m sure they’ll be able to answer your questions.”
The desperate hope in her eyes fades when she realizes I can’t release her from that burden. I feel like a complete bastard, but it’s not worth the risk. Her hand lets go of my jacket sleeve.
“Have a safe journey home,” I say, and leave.
PC Riley is outside the door, accepting a sheaf of papers from the officer who was guarding the Diamond Suite earlier. “The NDA for the unchipped lady, sir,” he says. “The SOCO team have finished at the suite now.”
A message to that effect from Alex arrives as he says it. “Good.”
The lift pings at the end of the corridor and both police officers smile at whoever comes out. I twist around to see the hotel manager looking relieved to see me.
“SDCI Moreno, could I have a word with you in private, please? Something’s happened that I think you need to be aware of.”
I nod and head toward the lift with her. She presses the button for the ground floor. “Is it regarding the investigation?”
When the doors close, she turns to face me. “In a manner of speaking. It’s a member of my staff. She’s been approached by a journalist who seems to know that Alejandro Casales was murdered here. She’s been offered a not-insignificant amount of money and other perks in return for information. I thought you should know.”
A flash of anger makes my face feel hot. “I take harassment from the press very seriously, Ms. Patel—Nadia. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“She’s waiting in my office,” Nadia says. “And is happy to cooperate fully. Will you be able to deal with the journalist on our behalf?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
—
THERE are two cafés in Ashburton, and I didn’t pay any attention to either of them when we drove through it earlier on the way to the cottage in which Theo died. I’m sitting in the one that serves real coffee made from ground beans rather than a bunch of chemicals mixed with caffeine and water. It’s five times the price, but it’s worth it. The man behind the counter smiled at me when I insisted upon a cup of the real stuff, giving me that gentle nod that people share when they meet another person who understands this need for real things.
“Those are homemade,” he says proudly as he brings a small plate of biscuits over with my cup. “I baked them this morning. Free to customers who order the proper coffee.”
I thank him as a woman sitting at the table next to mine sniffs. “No one can tell the difference, not really,” she announces to anyone who cares to listen. The café owner rolls his eyes but doesn’t challenge her. “Waste of money if you ask me.”
I’ve learned not to reply in these situations. It’s never really about the taste; it’s about the perception of wealth, and anything to do with that makes people twitchy about class. Even though this country is part of Norope now, even though England exists only as a name and the borders are essentially meaningless between it and Norway, Sweden and the rest, the specter of class still haunts the British-island psyche. There may not be lords anymore, but there’s still hierarchy. She probably thinks I’m on a pay grade far higher than hers, earning more than I should and showing it off. With both of our profiles set to private, there’s only the purchase of this coffee for her to form her opinion of me. My suit is as generic as they come, my hairstyle functional rather than fashionable, my shoes clean and nondescript. She has no idea that I’m a smartly dressed slave and nothing more.
She’s looking at me, perhaps hoping I’ll argue. I turn away from her and consult the map Tia has readied for my perusal as she strikes up a conversation with the café owner about what will be found in the capsule. She speaks with the authority of the ignorant, churning out the same old shit that’s been filling the feeds. To my disbelief, the owner engages with her, evidently just as excited about what will be found inside. Safe in my highly filtered bubble, immersed in the case, I’d forgotten the depth of the fervor about its opening.
I tune them out as best I can, focusing on the map instead. The other coffee shop is only fifty meters away from the café I’m in, and seated inside it is a recently promoted trainee chef called Sondra who decided her job was more valuable to her than the reward offered by the journalist we’re both waiting for. Nadia Patel has the most loyal staff I’ve ever seen. I’m sure Sondra will be rewarded, but whether that’s enough to keep her calm while she waits in the private room upstairs, alone, is anyone’s guess. She wanted to insist on meeting in the café downstairs, but I pointed out to her that a journalist trying to buy information is unlikely to do that in a place where the conversation could be recorded by a dozen other patrons. “Go along with whatever ze suggests,” I said to her. “Meeting in the room ze hired isn’t an issue because you won’t be alone. I’ll be watching; I’ll be thirty seconds away, okay?” The poor kid looked like she was going to be sick.
On the map, a small red dot moves down the high street toward the other café. It represents pings sent to the cloud via Naal Delaney’s chip, the journalist who presumably thought it was a good idea to wheedle information out of the hotel staff when I failed to respond to any of the emails ze sent over the past six days.
Delaney knows that anything to do with the Moor Hotel and what may have happened inside it is off-limits to journalists. There’s an automated message that will alert hir chip within a hundred-meter radius of the hotel, and it pops up with any related search. In attempting to bribe an employee, Delaney is at best breaching good-practice guidelines (only if their conversation is about anything other than the murder) and at worst committing a criminal offense. I often expect the worst. This is one of the rare times when I’m hoping for it.
The red dot pauses outside the other café and then goes inside.
Are you prepared to record your conversation and submit the live feed to the MoJ for consideration? I text Sondra.
Yes. I don’t want to lose my job.
You won’t. Sit tight, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Find out what ze wants to know and what you would get for it.
K
I need to give Delaney time to proposition the girl explicitly before I can go in and throw my weight around. Someone else at the hotel must have revealed something to make ze so keen to find out more information—Delaney wanted to speak to me about being in Devon after all—and Nadia wants me to find out who that loose-tongued employee was. It’s just one of several questions I plan to ask.
The coffee is smooth and rich, on a par with what the hotel serves. Tia deduces a pleasure rating from my reaction and gives me a notification informing me that, using one of my MoJ-approved online identities, she has rated the café on my behalf with five stars and left a comment about how good the real coffee is. I hate that instant-feedback shit—that’s why I’ve handed it over to Tia to handle when lots of people still do it by hand—but it means a lot to little places like this. The man behind the counter starts humming a cheerful tune and I have the suspicion Tia just made his day.
Tia flashes up a notification that the live feed from my spy in the other café is available to watch. I lean back in the chair, savoring the warmth from the cup cradled in my hands and the aroma wafting up from it. I select the link.
The room in which Sondra waits is for private parties. There’s a food and drink printer in the corner and chairs stacked along one wall. The wood paneling isn’t good enough to give it class and the beige carpet and brown wallpaper aren’t nice enough to give the place warmth. There’s an old-fashioned hatch in the wall with presumably a kitchen on the other side of it, a leftover from the days when parties would have needed a catering space before people could just print whatever they like. Maybe the café owners are hoping that one day that hatch will be classed as a quaint vintage feature.
Sondra stops looking around the room, having been unable to find anything interesting to focus on, and instead looks down at the liquid in her mug trying to pass itself off as tea. She’s seated at the only table in the room and another chair has already been set out for Delaney. She swiftly looks up toward the door at the sound of footsteps approaching it. The doorknob turns and then the feed goes down.