Authors: Richard Morgan
Bancroft
waved a hand. “Of course, the police conducted their own cursory inquiry.
Oumou Prescott told them exactly what she had already told me. That nothing out
of the ordinary had been received in the last six months. I have enough faith
in her not to need to check beyond that. You’ll probably want to look at
the files yourself, though.”
The thought
of scrolling through hundreds of metres of incoherent vitriol from the lost and
losers of this antique world was quite sufficient to uncap my weariness again.
A profound lack of interest in Bancroft’s problems washed through me. I
mastered it with an effort worthy of Virginia Vidaura’s approval.
“Well,
I’ll certainly need to talk to Oumou Prescott, anyway.”
“I’ll
make the appointment immediately.” Bancroft’s eyes took on the
inward glaze of someone consulting internal hardware. “What time would
suit you?”
I held up a
hand. “Probably better if I do that myself. Just let her know I’ll
be in touch. And I’ll need to see the re-sleeving facility at
PsychaSec.”
“Certainly.
In fact, I’ll get Prescott to take you there. She knows the director.
Anything else?”
“A
line of credit.”
“Of
course. My bank have already allocated a DNA-coded account to you. I understand
they have the same system on Harlan’s World.”
I licked my
thumb and held it up queryingly. Bancroft nodded.
“Just
the same here. You
will
find there are areas of Bay City where cash is
still the only negotiable currency. Hopefully you won’t have to spend
much time in those parts, but if you do you can draw actual currency against
your account at any bank outlet. Will you require a weapon?”
“Not
at the moment, no.” One of Virginia Vidaura’s cardinal rules had
always been
find out the nature of your task before you choose your tools
.
That single sweep of charred stucco on Bancroft’s wall looked too elegant
for this to be a shoot ‘em up carnival.
“Well.”
Bancroft seemed almost perplexed by my response. He had been on the point of
reaching into his shirt pocket, and now he completed the action, awkwardly. He
held out an inscribed card to me. “This is my gunmaker. I’ve told them
to expect you.”
I took the
card and looked at it. The ornate script read
Larkin &
Green—Armourers since 2203
. Quaint. Below was a single string of
numbers. I pocketed the card.
“This
might be useful later on,” I admitted. “But for the moment I want
to make a soft landing. Sit back and wait for the dust to settle. I think you
can appreciate the need for that.”
“Yes,
of course. Whatever you think best. I trust your judgement.” Bancroft
caught my gaze and held it. “You’ll bear in mind the terms of our
agreement, though. I am paying for a service. I don’t react well to abuse
of trust, Mr.Kovacs.”
“No,
I don’t suppose you do,” I said tiredly. I remembered the way
Reileen Kawahara had dealt with two unfaithful minions. The animal sounds they
had made came back to me in dreams for a long time afterwards. Reileen’s
argument, framed as she peeled an apple against the backdrop of those screams,
was that since no one really dies any more, punishment can only come through
suffering. I felt my new face twitch, even now, with the memory. “For
what it’s worth, the line the Corps fed you about me is so much shit on a
prick. My word’s as good as it ever was.”
I stood up.
“Can
you recommend a place to stay back in the city? Somewhere quiet, mid
range.”
“Yes,
there are places like that on Mission Street. I’ll have someone ferry you
back there. Curtis, if he’s out of arrest by then.” Bancroft
climbed to his feet as well. “I take it you intend to interview Miriam
now. She really knows more about those last forty-eight hours than I do, so
you’ll want to speak to her quite closely.”
I thought
about those ancient eyes in that pneumatic teenager’s body and the idea
of carrying on a conversation with Miriam Bancroft was suddenly repellent. At
the same time a cold hand strummed taut chords in the pit of my stomach and the
head of my penis swelled abruptly with blood. Classy.
“Oh, yes,” I
said unenthusiastically. “I’d like to do that.”
You seem ill at ease, Mr.Kovacs. Are
you?”
I looked
over my shoulder at the maid who had shown me in, then back at Miriam Bancroft.
Their bodies were about the same age.
“No,”
I said, more coarsely than I’d intended.
She briefly
curved her mouth down at the corners and went back to rolling up the map
she’d been studying when I arrived. Behind me the maid pulled the chart
room door closed with a heavy click. Bancroft hadn’t seen fit to
accompany me into the presence of his wife. Perhaps one encounter a day was as
much as they allowed themselves. Instead, the maid had appeared as if by magic
as we came down from the balcony in the seaward lounge. Bancroft paid her about
as much attention as he had last time.
When I
left, he was standing by the mirrorwood desk, staring at the blast mark on the
wall.
Mrs.Bancroft
deftly tightened the roll on the map in her hands and began to slide it into a
long protective tube.
“Well,”
she said, without looking up. “Ask me your questions, then.”
“Where
were you when it happened?”
“I
was in bed.” She looked up at me this time. “Please don’t ask
me to corroborate that; I was alone.”
The chart
room was long and airy under an arched roof that someone had tiled with
illuminum. The map racks were waist high, each topped with a glassed-in display
and set out in rows like exhibit cases in a museum. I moved out of the centre
aisle, putting one of the racks between Mrs.Bancroft and myself. It felt a
little like taking cover.
“Mrs.Bancroft,
you seem to be under some misapprehension here. I’m not the police.
I’m interested in information, not guilt.”
She slid
the wrapped map into its holder and leaned back against the rack with both
hands behind her. She had left her fresh young sweat and tennis clothes in some
elegant bathroom while I was talking to her husband. Now she was immaculately
fastened up in black slacks and something born of a union between a dinner
jacket and a bodice. Her sleeves were pushed casually up almost to the elbow,
her wrists unadorned with jewellery.
“Do I
sound guilty, Mr.Kovacs?” she asked me.
“You
seem overanxious to assert your fidelity to a complete stranger.”
She
laughed. It was a pleasant, throaty sound and her shoulders rose and fell as
she let it out. A laugh I could get to like.
“How
very indirect you are.”
I looked
down at the map displayed on the top of the rack in front of me. It was dated
in the top left-hand corner, a year four centuries before I was born. The names
marked on it were in a script I couldn’t read.
“Where
I come from, directness is not considered a great virtue, Mrs.Bancroft.”
“No?
Then what is?”
I shrugged.
“Politeness. Control. Avoidance of embarrassment for all parties.”
“Sounds
boring. I think you’re going to have a few shocks here, Mr.Kovacs.”
“I
didn’t say I was a good citizen where I come from, Mrs.Bancroft.”
“Oh.”
She pushed herself off the rack and moved towards me. “Yes, Laurens told
me a little about you. It seems you’re thought of as a dangerous man on
Harlan’s World.”
I shrugged
again.
“It’s
Russian.”
“I’m
sorry?”
“The
script.” She came round the rack and stood beside me, looking down at the
map. “This is a Russian computer-generated chart of moon landing sites.
Very rare. I got it at auction. Do you like it?”
“It’s
very nice. What time did you go to sleep the night your husband was
shot?”
She stared
at me. “Early. I told you, I was alone.” She forced the edge out of
her voice and her tone became almost light again. “Oh, and if that sounds
like guilt, Mr.Kovacs, it’s not. It’s resignation. With a twist of
bitterness.”
“You
feel bitter about your husband?”
She smiled.
“I thought I said resigned.”
“You
said both.”
“Are
you saying you think I killed my husband?”
“I
don’t think anything yet. But it is a possibility.”
“Is
it?”
“You
had access to the safe. You were inside the house defences when it happened.
And now it sounds as if you might have some emotional motives.”
Still
smiling, she said, “Building a case, are we, Mr.Kovacs?”
I looked
back at her. “If the heart pumps. Yeah.”
“The
police had a similar theory for a while. They decided the heart didn’t
pump. I’d prefer it if you didn’t smoke in here.”
I looked
down at my hands and found they had quite unconsciously taken out Kristin
Ortega’s cigarettes. I was in the middle of tapping one out of the pack.
Nerves. Feeling oddly betrayed by my new sleeve, I put the packet away.
“I’m
sorry.”
“Don’t
be. It’s a question of climate control. A lot of the maps in here are
very sensitive to pollution. You couldn’t know.”
She somehow
managed to make it sound as if only a complete moron wouldn’t have
realised. I could feel my grip on the interview sliding out of sight.
“What
made the police—”
“Ask
them.” She turned her back and walked away from me as if making a
decision. “How old are you, Mr.Kovacs?”
“Subjectively?
Forty-one. The years on Harlan’s World are a little longer than here, but
there isn’t much in it.”
“And
ob
jectively?”
she asked, mocking my tone.
“I’ve
had about a century in the tank. You tend to lose track.” That was a lie.
I knew to the day how long each of my terms in storage had been. I’d
worked it out one night and now the number wouldn’t go away. Every time I
went down again, I added on.
“How
alone you must be by now.”
I sighed
and turned to examine the nearest map rack. Each rolled chart was labelled at
the end. The notation was archaeological. Syrtis Minor; 3rd excavation, east
quarter. Bradbury; aboriginal ruins. I started to tug one of the rolls free.
“Mrs.Bancroft,
how I feel is not at issue here. Can you think of any reason why your husband
might have tried to kill himself?”
She whirled
on me almost before I had finished speaking and her face was tight with anger.
“My
husband did not kill himself,” she said freezingly.
“You
seem very sure of that.” I looked up from the map and gave her a smile.
“For someone who wasn’t awake, I mean.”
“Put
that back,” she cried, starting towards me. “You have no idea how
valuable—”
She
stopped, brought up short as I slid the map back into the rack. She swallowed
and brought the flush in her cheeks under control.
“Are
you trying to make me angry, Mr.Kovacs?”
“I’m
just trying to get some attention.”
We looked
at each other for a pair of seconds. Mrs.Bancroft lowered her gaze.
“I’ve
told you, I was asleep when it happened. What else can I tell you?”
“Where
had your husband gone that night?”
She bit her
lip. “I’m not sure. He went to Osaka that day, for a
meeting.”
“Osaka
is where?”
She looked
at me in surprise.
“I’m
not from here,” I said patiently.
“Osaka’s
in Japan. I thought—”
“Yeah,
Harlan’s World was settled by a Japanese
keiretsu
using East
European labour. It was a long time ago, and I wasn’t around.”
“I’m
sorry.”
“Don’t
be. You probably don’t know much about what your ancestors were doing
three centuries ago either.”
I stopped.
Mrs.Bancroft was looking at me strangely. My own words hit me a moment later.
Download dues. I was going to have to sleep soon, before I said or did
something really stupid.
“I
am
over three centuries old, Mr.Kovacs.” There was a small smile playing around
her mouth as she said it. She’d taken back the advantage as smoothly as a
bottleback diving. “Appearances are deceptive. This is my eleventh
body.”
The way she
held herself said that I was supposed to take a look. I flickered my gaze
across the Slavic boned cheeks, down to the décolletage and then to the
tilt of her hips, the half shrouded lines of her thighs, all the time affecting
a detachment that neither I nor my recently roused sleeve had any right to.
“It’s
very nice. A little young for my tastes, but as I said, I’m not from
here. Can we get back to your husband please. He’d been to Osaka during
the day, but he came back. I assume he didn’t go physically.”