Very good, he told her drily, but can you stop?
The vertiginous motion slowed. Halted. It was dusk, a paltry smattering of rain leaking from bleak clouds. The room was deserted, its frost of plastic sheets glimmering a dirty indigo.
Up?
Inside, you know?
Stop. Right away.
Bloody hell, said Eleanor. There was a dazed quality to her thoughts, almost like giddiness. I did it, Greg. The past!
Yeah. Yesterday evening, I think. How are you standing?
OK. There's this feeling of pressure. Like I'm pushing against something.
If it ever gets to be an effort then Eleanor. Don't try and tough it out.
OK.
Any sign of alternatives yet?
God, no, Greg. This is bad enough.
Just asking. Now let's go back to the night of the murder. One week, Thursday night, midnight, or as close as we can get.
All right.
The room surged around him again.
They stopped a few times, watching Denzil or Nicolette come in and run hand-held sensors over the furniture and carpet. Sometimes they would bag an item up and take it out.
Last Friday was a blur of activity, with as many as seven or eight people crowding in at once, whizzing around. The sheets of plastic crumpled up, shrinking, vanishing, leaving the chairs and tables exposed again.
Night closed in.
Here we go, Eleanor said.
He could sense the tension, and the effort, in her mind, thoughts stretched as taut as an athlete's sinew.
Nicholas Beswick was sitting at the desk, absorbed with the dense sapphire graphics slithering through his terminal's cube. Erratic moonbeams were raking the parkland outside.
You were right about Nicholas, Eleanor said, he does need looking after, doesn't he?
Yeah. I like him.
Me too.
This ought to be about the time when Rosette and Isabel traipse off to see Kitchener. Move in to the bedside cabinet, we'll have a look at the clock.
The perception point drifted downwards until it was level with Nicholas's head. Surprise scrawled across his face, eyes widening.
He can see me!
Greg could sense her own startled thoughts as Nicholas opened his mouth to emit what must have been a gasp. There was no sound. Perturbed, Eleanor started to pull away, the image slowing. Graphics in the cube moved with increasing sluggishness until they finally froze.
This is what we came for, he reminded her.
Sorry.
She had moved directly above Nicholas when animation returned to the scene. Nicholas jerked round frantically in his chair, searching about. After a moment the tension seemed to evaporate from him, he rubbed his hands over his eyes and typed a code into the terminal. Then he stiffened, his head turning slowly until he was looking at the door.
This is it, Greg said. I want you to try and follow Rosette and Isabel down to Kitchener's bedroom, OK?
Do my best.
Nicholas had walked over to the door. Greg watched him gathering up the courage to turn the handle.
As soon as the door opened, Eleanor glided through it, staying near the ceiling and looking down. Rosette was wearing a green silk kimono. Isabel was just in her bra and jeans; her raw sexuality was devastating.
Rosette said a few words to Nicholas, then both girls left him behind as they walked down the gloomy corridor. Greg didn't like the stricken expression on Nicholas's face, not one bit. The boy was far too young to have his heart broken so cruelly. But then, when is a good age?
That poor boy, Eleanor said.
No messing.
The two girls exchanged furtive whispers as they headed for Kitchener's room. Both of them looked guilty.
Hope you choke on it, Greg wished them silently.
Kitchener was wearing white cotton pyjamas. He greeted both girls with an effusive smile. The old man gestured a lot, Greg saw, arms constantly on the move. Rosette and Isabel were both kissed exuberantly. Some of their chirpiness had returned.
The first thing Rosette did was go over to a bedside cabinet and take out an infuser tube. It was gold plated, the size of her middle finger. She applied it expertly to Isabel's neck.
Wants to get her cloudsailng before she says anything about Nicholas to Kitchener, Greg thought.
Isabel wriggled sinuously out of her tight jeans as Kitchener sat himself down in a big armchair beside the bed. His eyes never left her, Isabel moved into Rosette's embrace where her hair was stroked, cheeks caressed. More than anything it looked like she was being soothed, calmed like a skittish animal.
Tell me, Gregory, exactly how much of this do you envisage watching?
He sensed she wanted to make a joke of it, but the mental tone fell terribly short. In a body a long way away anticipation was building like a static charge along his spine. He had said he couldn't envisage what kind of man would commit such barbarism, now he was going to be shown the atrocity in its entirety.
A naked Isabel stood at the side of the bed, facing Kitchener, her head tipped back slightly, eyelids fluttering, hands rubbing insistently up and down the outside curve of her hips. The old man's eyes traced over her figure as he sipped a glass of port. Rosette began to kiss her throat with provocative tenderness, tongue licking at the curves and hollows of flesh. She descended along the cleft between Isabel's conical breasts, on to the flat expanse of belly, hungry now, her hands clasping the smaller girl's buttocks. Isabel's mouth parted to sigh, her eyes and soul shining by the light of syntho's icy fire.
Take us ahead to when they leave, Greg said.
Isabel lay back on the sheets, spreading her limbs wide, torso flexing sensually. Rosette dropped her robe and climbed on to the bed, slowly lowering herself on to Isabel.
Eleanor's focal shift accelerated the two squirming figures into hazy smears. The third figure rose from the chair and joined them. In combination the trio had that same rarefied blur as a dragonfly wing.
The girls left at twenty-seven minutes to three. They were leaning against each other, Rosette with her arm thrown protectively around Isabel. The smaller girl was drowsy, a lifeless smile of satisfaction on her lips. Kitchener snoozed on the bed, white hair askew.
How are you coping? Greg asked.
That feeling of being squeezed, it's much tighter now.
OK let's shift forward a little then.
The door opened at eighteen minutes past four. Nicholas Beswick walked in.
"Greg!" The voice encompassed anguish and dread, finishing with a tiny whimper.
He heard it, actually heard it, the force breaking through the neurohormone's isolation.
No no no, her mind cried.
Stay with it. Keep centred, Eleanor, you must keep your mind centred here.
But Greg!
I know. It might not be him. Just a few minutes more, that's all, please.
He'd said it, but he didn't believe it.
Nicholas was wearing a brown apron, naked underneath except for a pair of underpants. His right hand gripped a thirty-centimetre-long carving knife.
Through a clammy chill of disbelief, Greg watched the boy walk over to the bed. He put the knife down on the cabinet, and picked up one of the pillows. Kitchener stirred briefly. Nicholas lowered the pillow on to the old man's face.
Greg, oh Greg, stop him.
I can't, darling. I can't.
Kitchener woke at the very end, scrawny limbs thrashing about. Nicholas's teeth were bared in a feral smile, biceps standing proud as he kept the pillow in place. The feeble scrabbling stopped after less than half a minute. Nicholas didn't lift the pillow for another ninety seconds. After that, he put it back with the others at the head of the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles with the edge of his hand.