He heard the muffled 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 Kéthani? 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 Cockburn, right?”
“Never heard of him.”
“A Cambridge philosopher who claims that humankind has lost some innate spark since the arrival of the Kéthani.”
“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 analysis, 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 glass 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 glass, 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.”