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, “Pissed 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 Kéthani 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 Kéthani, 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 massive 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.”
Standish nodded. “Anything that might shed light—?”
Singh interrupted. “Nothing.” He smiled at Standish’s puzzlement. “The records go back three years, during her time with over half a dozen Onward Stations up and down the country. Before that, Sarah Roberts didn’t exist, officially, that is.”
“So ‘Sarah Roberts’ was an alias?”
“Something like that. We’re checking with the Ministry of Kéthani Affairs. Chances are that the whole thing will be taken away from us and declared classified. If she was important enough to work for the Ministry in some hush-hush capacity, then the killing might be deemed too sensitive a matter for us mere workaday coppers.”
“And you think the killing might have been linked to her work?”
“Impossible to tell. Between you and me, I don’t think we’ll ever find out.”
Standish let his gaze stray again to the projected image of Sarah Roberts. “Have the techs come up with any reason for the dysfunction of her implant?”