“But children are especially blessed if they die under the priest’s knife. Their souls go straight to Tamoanchan, where they frolic at the feet of Quetzalcoatl all day and sleep in a dormitory next to his throne room all night. Jake could not be happier on earth than he is now, in the gods’ company.”
“Jake,” said Stuart, “belongs at my side. He would be four now, just starting school, and I would be with him every step of the way, teaching him what I know, giving him all he needs to become a man. Sofia took him from me, and herself as well, and the gods received what the gods did not deserve to have.”
Those grey eyes glinted like gunmetal. “Must make you pretty cross, that, huh? I bet you’re pissed off with your wife, but because she’s not around to be pissed off with, you resent the Empire instead.”
“That would be absurd. To transfer one’s emotions onto an abstract, unfeeling entity? What would be the point?”
“The blame’s got to go somewhere.”
“I told you, if I blame anyone, it’s myself. I could have been more on the ball. I could have been more sensitive to Sofia’s needs. A better husband.”
“Self-hatred has a way of turning outward.”
“I still don’t see what all this is about, Inspector Vaughn. What are you driving at? Why all these questions about my wife and son? Their deaths are a matter of public record. There’s no secret involved. I’ve nothing to hide. It happened while I was abroad on a business trip. Sofia chose her moment well. She was cunning, in the way that the mentally ill sometimes are. She knew if I’d got a sniff of what she was up to, I’d have moved heaven and earth to prevent it.”
“Business trip,” said the chief inspector. “Funny you should mention that.”
“Funny why?”
“Actually, you know what? I’m parched. Long day yesterday, late night last night. Could your PA whip me up a coca tea?”
“I’m sure it could be arranged.” Stuart pressed a button on the intercom and placed the drink order with Tara. Five minutes of smouldering silence later, in she came with a tray.
Vaughn noted the single cup. “Nothing for you?”
“I don’t partake,” said Stuart. “That’ll be all, Tara, thanks. Hold my calls for the time being. The chief inspector here seems to have a lot she wants to chat about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were saying?” he prompted, after Tara had gone. “Something about a business trip?”
“Yes. Ooh, good coca. Classy stuff. Straight from the slopes of the Andes, if I don’t miss my guess.”
“They have the best plantations there. I’m told the home-grown strains don’t compare.”
“I speak as someone with a lifelong habit — this is seriously good shit.”
She meant it, too. Stuart could see this wasn’t some devious tactic of hers, designed to disarm. Chief Inspector Vaughn was genuinely taken with the quality of the coca on offer at Reston Rhyolitic.
He didn’t believe for one moment, however, that he had won the duel.
“Anyway, business trip, yes,” she continued. “Would I be right in thinking that you travelled to Italy recently, on business?”
“You would be wrong.”
“Really?”
“It was Sicily. Don’t ever confuse the two places, certainly not in the presence of a Sicilian.”
“But the date of the excursion was Six Vulture One Monkey, yes? I’m not wrong about that?”
“I believe it was.”
“I know it was. I checked. What’s curious is, that very same day His Holiness Priest Marquand was killed — nastily — at Heathrow, along with his bodyguards. In fact, I understand His Holiness happened to be on the very same inbound flight that you were on.”
“I don’t recall. In all likelihood he was.”
“I’m telling you he was, because the records back me up.”
“How do you know? Priests don’t have to log their comings and goings. They don’t have to register at customs.”
“True, but airlines are obliged by law to make a special note of every commercial flight that carries a priest. Should the aerodisc crash or go missing, the hieratic caste need to know if one of their own is aboard, so that steps can be taken as soon as possible to replace him. It’s not public knowledge that this happens, but it’s been official protocol for many years.”
Shit, thought Stuart.
He said, “So what if we were on the same disc? There were three hundred other passengers on the flight. Any one of them could have murdered His Holiness. As could any one of the hundreds of people who were airside at the time.”
“It’s an intriguing coincidence, though,” said Chief Inspector Vaughn. “You being there. A man with Eagle training, what’s more.”
“My Eagle days were long ago.”
“But the army taught you how to kill with your bare hands.”
“And the police taught you the same. Maybe one of your lot did it. Ever thought of that?”
“No motive,” she replied flatly. “The Jaguars exist to serve and protect the state, not murder its representatives.”
“But it is, after all, as you say, a coincidence. Just chance. That’s not enough to pin the guilt for it on me.”
“True. As a matter of fact, it’s probably the one crime for which nobody could lay a finger on you.”
“Implying there are others you can.”
“Where were you, Mr Reston, on the night of Seven Movement One Monkey?”
“Look, when the fuck was that?” said Stuart. “The tonalpohualli calendar is so damn confusing. Day-signs, trecena s, two different lengths of year… Why couldn’t we have kept the Gregorian? So much more bloody logical and easy to follow.”
“Let me simplify it for you, then,” said the detective. “The evening before last. Where were you?”
“Home.”
“That’s it? Home?”
“Home.”
“Is there anybody who can confirm that?”
“No.”
“You were just… home.”
“Yes. Alone. Catching up on a spot of paperwork.”
“You weren’t, by any chance, at the Regent’s Park outdoor theatre?”
“No. Should I have been? What was on?”
“A hell of a show, actually.”
“Really? Well, I’m sorry to have missed it.”
“So you can’t account for your whereabouts that night.”
“Yes, I can. I told you. I was home.”
“If you start getting obstructive with me, Mr Reston, we can always carry on this conversation down at the Yard. It’s a whole lot less congenial there than here, and the tone will be a whole lot less civil.”
“How am I being obstructive?” Stuart protested. “I’m giving you straight answers to your questions. What more do you want?”
“So you’re telling me that no one else can confirm that you were at your house all evening?”
“My flat. I’m a widower, a single man. I don’t need a house any more. And no, no one can corroborate my claim. What part of ‘alone’ are you finding so hard to comprehend, chief inspector?”
“It’s really not much of an alibi, is it?”
“Agreed, it’s not. Had I known in advance that I’d need to come up with an alibi for myself on the night in question, then I’d have made sure I had one. I simply didn’t realise it would be required. Sorry.”
The detective looked at him askance. “You are one conceited son of a bitch, you know that?”
Stuart gave her a blank stare in return. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, inspector. Are you or are you not here to accuse me of something? And if so, what?”
“You know full well what.”
“Clearly I don’t.”
“Am I going to have to come right out and say it?”
“I think you are.”
“All right.” She set her jaw. “Mr Reston, I have good reason to believe that you are the mass-murdering terrorist known as the Conquistador.”
Stuart hesitated. Then he burst out laughing. “Preposterous! What proof do you have? Give me a single shred of evidence that says I am.”
“Priest Marquand’s murder.”
“Was the Conquistador seen there? Are there any eyewitnesses who can place him at the scene?”
“No, but — ”
“There you go.”