Kethani Part 15

He moved to the bathroom and scanned the contents: a big shower stall, a Jacuzzi in the corner, plush white carpet... He stared around the room, trying to fathom precisely why he had the subtle feeling that something was not quite right. It was more a vague sensation than anything definite.

He heard the m.u.f.fled groan of a labouring engine and rejoined Lincoln in the lounge.

Two minutes later Kendrick, the scene-of-crime team chief, appeared at the door with three other officers, and Standish and Lincoln went over their findings.

The tech from the Station turned up shortly after that and knelt over the corpse, examining the woman's implant with the aid of a case full of equipment, scanners and a softscreen, and other implements Standish didn't recognise.

Kendrick drew Standish to one side. "They're bringing in a chap from Manchester, inspector. I know technically this is your territory, but the commissioner's decided he wants the big boys in."

Standish opened his mouth to complain, then thought better of it. Kendrick was merely the messenger; it would achieve nothing to vent his frustration on the scene-of-crime chief.

Twenty minutes later Lincoln clapped him on the shoulder. "Heading past the Dog and Gun? Fancy a quick one?"

"You're a mind-reader, Richard. Lead the way."

They retreated with their pints of Old Peculier to the table beside the fire. The barroom of the Dog and Gun was empty but for themselves and half a dozen youngsters at the far end of the bar. The kids wore the latest silvered fashions-uncomfortably dazzling to the eye-and talked too loudly amongst themselves. As if we really want to hear their inane views of life in the twenty-first century, Standish thought.

"What is it, Doug?" Lincoln asked, reducing the measure of his pint by half in one appreciative mouthful.

"What's happened to society over the past ten years, Richard?"

Lincoln smiled. "You mean since the coming of the Kethani? Don't you think things have got better?"

Standish shrugged. "I suppose so, yes." How could he express his dissatisfaction without sounding sorry for himself? "But... Okay, so we don't die. We don't have that fear. But what about the quality of the life we have now?"

Lincoln laughed. "You've been reading c.o.c.kburn, right?"

"Never heard of him."

"A Cambridge philosopher who claims that humankind has lost some innate spark since the arrival of the Kethani."

"I wouldn't know about that," Standish said. He took a long swallow of rich, creamy ale. "It's just that... perhaps it's me. I lived so long with the certainties of the old way of life. I knew where I belonged. I had a job that I liked and thought useful..."

At the far end of the bar, one of the kids-a girl, Standish saw-threw her lager in the face of a friend, who didn't seem to mind. They laughed uproariously and barged their way from the pub. Seconds later he saw them mount their motorcycles and roar off, yelling, into the night.

"All the old values have gone," he said.

"The world's changing," Lincoln said. "Now that we no longer fear death, we're liberated."

Standish smiled and shook his head. "Liberated from what-what freedom have we found? The freedom to live shallow, superficial lives? Perhaps it's my fault," he went on. "Perhaps I was an old fart before the aliens came, and now I'm too set in my ways to change." That was a glib a.n.a.lysis, he thought, but it hinted at some deeper, psychological truth.

Lincoln was watching him. "Don't you think about the future, and feel grateful for what we've got?"

Standish considered this. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm struck by the greater uncertainty of things. Before we had the certainty of death- oblivion, if you had no faith. Now we come back to life and go among the stars... and that seems almost as terrifying."

Lincoln contemplated his empty gla.s.s for a second or two, then said, "Another pint?"

"You've twisted my arm."

Lincoln returned, sat down, and regarded Standish in silence for a while. "How's things with Amanda?" The question was asked with the casual precision of a psychiatrist getting to the heart of his patient's problem.

Standish shrugged. "About the same. It's been bad for a year or so now." Longer, if he were to be honest with himself. It was just that he'd begun to notice it over the course of the past year.

"Have you considered counselling?"

"Thought about it," he said. Which was a lie. Their relationship was too far gone to bother trying to save. Amanda felt nothing for him any more, and had said as much.

He shrugged and said, "There's really not much to say about it, Richard. It's as good as over." He buried his head in his drink and willed the ferryman to change the subject.

It was over, he knew, but something deep within him, that innate conservatism again, that fear of change, was loath to be the one to admit as much. It was as if he lived in hope that things might change between them, become miraculously better.

But in lieu of improvement, he held onto what he had got for fear of finding himself with nothing at all.

Lincoln said, "Doug, perhaps you'd feel better about life in general if you could sort things out with Amanda, one way or another."

Standish finished his pint, and said, too quickly, obviously trying to silence the ferryman, "One for the road?"

Lincoln looked at his watch. "Better not. I've an early start in the morning." He stood. "Keep in touch, okay? How about coming over to the Fleece one night? There's a great crowd there, and the beer's excellent."

Standish smiled. "I'll do that," he said, knowing full well that he would do nothing of the sort.

He sat for a while after Lincoln had left, contemplating his empty gla.s.s, then went to the bar for a refill. The room was empty, save for himself. He'd have a couple more after this one, then go home. Amanda would no doubt comment on the reek of alcohol and make some barbed remark about driving while over the limit, but by that time Standish would be past caring.

He thought about Sarah Roberts and the impossibility of her murder. The image of the woman, ethereally angelic, floated into his vision. The tech from the Onward Station had been unable to ascertain if Roberts could be saved, and seemed nonplussed at the dysfunction of her implant.

The entire affair had an air of insoluble mystery that made Standish uncomfortable. The unmarked snow, the circular melt, the failure of her implant... Perhaps it was as well that he wouldn't be working on the case.

His mobile rang, surprising him. "Doug?"

"Amanda?" he said.

"I thought you said you'd be back by six?" Her clipped Welsh tone sounded peremptory, accusing.

"Something came up. I'm working late."

"Well, I have to go out. Kath's babysitter's let her down at the last minute. I'll be back around midnight. Your dinner's in the microwave."

"Fine. Bye-"

But she had cut the connection.

Five minutes later he finished his drink and was about to go to the bar for another when, through the window, he saw a small blue VW Electro halt at the crossroads, signal right, and then turn carefully on the gritted surface.

On impulse he stood and hurried from the bar. He was over the limit, but he gave it no thought as he slipped in behind the wheel of the Renault and set off in pursuit of the VW.

Amanda's best friend, Kath, lived in Bradley, five miles in the opposite direction to where Amanda was heading now.

Seconds later, through the darkness, he made out a set of rear lights. The VW was crawling along at jogging pace. Amanda always had been too cautious a driver. He slowed so as not to catch her up, and only then wondered why he was following her.

Did he really want to know?

He wondered if Richard Lincoln's last pearl of wisdom had provoked him into action. "Doug, perhaps you'd feel better about life in general if you could sort things out with Amanda, one way or another." "Doug, perhaps you'd feel better about life in general if you could sort things out with Amanda, one way or another."

Perhaps he'd had long enough of feeling powerless. Who had said that knowledge was power? He shook his head. The alcohol was fuddling his thinking. He really should turn around and go home, leave Amanda to whatever petty adultery she was committing.

He hunched over the wheel and concentrated on the road ahead.

Five minutes later they entered the village of Hockton and the VW slowed to a crawl and pulled into the kerb beside a row of stone-built cottages. Standish drove on, overtook the parked car, and came to a halt twenty metres further along the road.

He turned in his seat and watched as Amanda climbed out and hurried through the slush. A light came on in the porch of the cottage where she'd parked, and the figure of a man appeared in the doorway.

Amanda ran into his embrace, then slipped into the house. The light in the porch went out. The door closed. He imagined his wife in the arms of the stranger and then whatever else they might get up to in the hours before midnight.

The strange thing was that he felt no anger. No anger at all. Instead, he experienced a dull ache in his chest, like an incipient coronary, and a strange sense of disappointment.

Now he knew, and nothing could ever be the same again.

He turned his car and drove back past the house, noting the number. He would check on its occupant later, when he had thought through the implications of Amanda's actions.

He drove home, considered stopping at the Dog and Gun for a few more, but vetoed the idea. Once home, he tried to eat the meal Amanda had left for him, managed half of it and threw the rest.

He went to bed, but not in the main bedroom. He slept in the guest room and wondered why he hadn't had the guts to do so before now.

He was still awake well after midnight when Amanda got back. He heard her key in the front door and minutes later the sound of her soft footsteps on the stairs. He imagined her entering the bedroom and not finding him there, and the thought gave him a frisson of juvenile satisfaction.

A minute later she appeared in the doorway, silhouetted in the landing light behind her. "Doug? Are you okay?"

She was a small woman, dark-haired and voluptuous. He recalled the first time he had seen her naked.

He wanted to ask her why, but that would be to initiate a conflict in which he could only finish second-best. He knew why. She no longer loved him. It was as simple as that.

She waited a second, then said, "p.i.s.sed again, are you? Well, stay there, then."

She pushed herself away from the jamb, and Standish said, "Don't worry, I fully intend to."

She hesitated, considering a rejoinder, but thought better of it and moved back to the main bedroom, turning off the landing light and filling the house with darkness.

Later, in the early hours, Standish awoke suddenly, startled by the burst of white light as the Onward Station beamed its freight of dead humans to the orbiting Kethani starship.

That night he dreamed of angels.

He awoke early next morning and left the house before Amanda got up. It was another crystal clear, dazzlingly bright day. A fierce frost had sealed the snow overnight and the roads into Bradley were treacherous.

The desk-sergeant apprehended Standish before he reached his office and handed him a printout.

Detective Inspector Singh wanted to see him about the Roberts case.

"He's here?" Standish asked.

The sergeant shook his head. "Up at the farmhouse with a forensic team."

He drove from Bradley and over the moors, taking his time. He crested a rise and, before him, the spun-crystal pinnacle of the Onward Station came into view. It looked at its best in a setting of mow, he thought: it belonged. He wondered at the homeworld of the Kethani, and whether it was a place of snow and ice.

How little we know of our benefactors, he thought as he arrived at the farmhouse.

A fall of snow during the night had filled in the footsteps made by Standish, Lincoln, and the others the evening before, but a new trail of prints led up the drive from two police cars parked outside the gate, now unlocked. He climbed from his car and hurried over to the house.

Detective Inspector R.J. Singh stood in the front room, arms folded across his ma.s.sive stomach. He was a big man in a dark suit and a white turban, and when he spoke Standish detected a marked Lancastrian accent. "Inspector Standish. Glad you could make it. Good to have you aboard."

"I hope I can help." They shook hands, and Standish looked down at where, yesterday, the body of Sarah Roberts had sprawled.

Today, a series of holographic projectors recreated the image. It was the first time Standish had witnessed the technology at work, and he had to admit that it was impressive. But for the presence of the three small tripod-mounted projectors, he might have believed that the body was still in situ.

Even though he knew it was not the real thing, he still found it hard to look upon the ethereal beauty of the spectral image.

A couple of forensic scientists knelt in the corner of the room, minutely inspecting the carpet with portable microscopes.

Singh questioned him about the discovery of the body, and Standish recounted his impressions.

They moved across the room, to where a series of photographs had been spread out across the table. They showed the farmhouse and the surrounding snow-covered grounds from every angle.

"Not a clue," Singh said, gesturing at the photographs. "Nothing. The killer came and went without leaving a trace. We've thought of everything. I don't suppose you've come up with anything?"

He told Singh about his theory that the killer might have concealed himself somewhere in the house.

"Thought of that," Singh said. "We went through the place with a fine-tooth comb."

Standish shook his head. "I don't know what else to suggest. I just can't see how the killer did it."

"I've studied the recordings of Roberts on the vid to the ferryman, Richard Lincoln," Singh said. "No clues there, either. One minute she's talking to Lincoln, and the next she goes to answer the door, comes back and... bang."

Standish moved to the window and looked out. The melted circle that he had noted yesterday was filled now with the night's snowfall.

"Did you see...?" he began.

Singh nodded. "One of the photos picked it up. I'm checking things like underground pipes. I don't think it's anything significant." He looked around the room. "She certainly kept a tidy house."

He had noticed that yesterday, Standish thought now, though then he'd hardly registered the fact. The place was as unlived in as a show house.

"I've been looking into Sarah Roberts's past," Singh said. "You might be interested in what I've discovered."