“So I’ll bring us down here. Mackendrick?”
“How far from the features?” the tycoon asked.
Ten Lee consulted her screen. “Two hundred and ten kilometres and counting.”
“Then land,” Mackendrick ordered. “We’ll ride the transporter back to them.”
They came down blind, the land obscured by driving rain and cloud. Bennett burned the vertical jets and the Cobra hovered, buffeted by the wind, and then came down slowly. Landfall arrived with a gentle bump and Bennett cut the jets. The Cobra ticked and clicked in the silent aftermath of descent.
“Well done, Bennett, Ten Lee,” Mackendrick said. “How does it feel to know you’ve come further than any crewed expedition before?”
Bennett sat in his couch and considered the fact. It was, he thought, hard to believe.
Ten Lee was going through the post-flight checks, having given the scene outside the ship barely a glance.
As Bennett stared, the storm abated and sunlight—no, not sunlight, Bennett reminded himself; the light from the gas giant—illuminated the land with an aqueous glow.
Mackendrick stepped between the couches and stared through the viewscreen. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “How beautiful.”
They had come down on a plain of short purple grassland between two long mountain ranges. Ahead, the serrated peaks of the northern range stretched off to left and right like massed scimitar blades. Beyond, dominating the landscape with its vast and brooding presence, the banded upper hemisphere of the gas giant—what had Mackendrick called it? Tenebrae?—swelled to fill half the sky.
Bennett reached over and touched Ten Lee’s arm. She looked up, and he was pleased to see an expression of wonder cross her face.
10
One month had passed since the last murder, and Vishwanath, Rana and the rest of the homicide team on the eighth floor were making little headway on the case of the crucifix killings.
After all the progress she had made on the night of the last murder, she had expected some breakthrough before now. She had checked all the leads she and Vishwanath had made on the case, but had drawn a blank with each. For the past two weeks she had spent every shift tracking down the friends and acquaintances of the dead men. She could have contacted these people via her com-screen, but she had wanted to get away from the confines of the eighth floor, where Naz had initiated a hate campaign against her.
She suspected it had something to do with the fact that Investigator Vishwanath consulted her on most cases now, valuing her opinion. Naz had had his nose put out in a big way, and hated her in consequence. He made jokes at her expense—the old one about her lack of boyfriends, which she could handle—and other hateful jibes about her lowly origins. “Is it true you were a street-kid, Rana?” he had asked in the staff canteen, surrounded by friends. “But you look too fair to be a Dullit.”
“I am not ashamed of where I come from, Naz,” she had replied with civility. “And if I were a Dullit I would be proud of the fact.”
“But that fair skin,” Naz had persisted. “I’ve seen no street-kid so pale! Perhaps you’re a half-caste? Is that it, Rana? Was your mother a whore and your father a European tourist?”
She’d considered telling him the truth, but knew that he would only ridicule her.
“That must be it!” Naz had declared with delight. “Your mother was a drunken whore. You know what they say—like mother, like daughter.”
She’d stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“She asks me what do I mean? What do you think I mean, Rana? How did you get to the eighth floor so fast? What was the reason for your meteoric rise? Of course, how stupid of me! You slept with Commissioner Singh, and now you’re screwing Investigator Vishwanath. No wonder you have no boyfriends—you have no time.”
She was pleased, in retrospect, that her coffee cup had been empty, because Naz might have earned himself a scalded face and Rana a reprimand, no matter how bad the provocation.
She’d considered telling Vishwanath of Naz’s continued baiting, but decided against that course of action. It would only fuel Naz in his belief that she had a special relationship with her commanding officer. She could take his immature jibes; they were, after all, the result of envy.
That afternoon Rana clipped her com-board to her belt, told Vishwanath that she was going out to interview an acquaintance of the last murder victim, and rode down to the underground car-park. She had requisitioned a squad car, and it was awaiting her when she stepped from the elevator. She gave the driver the address and, as the car made its way through the noisy crowds that flowed down the streets with little regard for their safety, she sat back and regarded the screen of her com-board.
She had checked on the origin of the cloth fibres discovered at three of the crime scenes. Of course, there was always the possibility that the fibre had nothing to do with the killer, but, as was the nature of homicide investigations, that possibility had to be positively disproved before being dismissed. She had discovered that the cloth was imported from the colony planet of Madrigal, that it was made into expensive suits by an esteemed firm of Bombay tailors, and that both suits and cloth were extremely rare. She made a note to remind herself to look into the possibility that the killer was an off-worlder with a taste for designer clothing.
The car plunged into shadow as it eased down a narrow alley in the old sector of the city. Rana switched off her board and peered through the side window. The buildings on either side of the alley were ancient concrete tenements connected by illegal electricity leads and washing lines flying pennants of old clothing beaten colourless in the shallows of the nearby Ganges. Pot-bellied infants in nothing but shorts stared at her with kohl-rimmed eyes, and the occasional stoic cow barred the way, watching Rana with eyes just as devoid of curiosity.
At the third bovine obstruction, she leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Ah-cha. I’ll walk from here. No problem.”
She squeezed from the car and eased her way past the stolidly chewing cow, peering at the grey walls for the street names stencilled in sky-blue Hindi script.
She had extracted the name of Mohammed Iqbal from an acquaintance of Ali Bhakor. Iqbal, she had been told, was a business associate of Bhakor’s. The acquaintance would say no more. Further enquiries from police records elicited the fact that Iqbal was a known small-time drug dealer who had worked for Bhakor from time to time. His was the very last name on Rana’s list of people to interview.
Iqbal lived on the fifth floor of a crumbling grey tenement. The building was so old that it had no elevator, and Rana had to walk up the five flights of concrete stairs. She eventually found Iqbal in a room barely big enough to contain his bulk. Fortunately the rickety door was already open, for Rana was sure he would have refused to let her enter.
He was sitting cross-legged on a soiled white mattress on the floor, smoking what smelled like hashish in an ornately painted water-pipe. His eyes, already squeezed between rolls of fat, narrowed even further when he saw Rana. “Who are you?” he snapped. “What do you want?”
“Are you Mohammed Iqbal?” she asked. His over-filled face resembled the pix Rana had copied from records.
He muttered, “What if I am? What if I’m not?”
“If you’re not, then you must be his twin brother.” She tossed the pix into his lap.
He glanced at it and grunted. “What do you want?”
She pulled off her boots, stepped over the threshold, and seated herself on the mattress before him. “The answers to a few questions. I have no interest in whatever business you’re conducting here—”
He spread gargantuan palms in a pathetic pantomime of innocence. “For one full year I have touched nothing more than hashish, and then only for medicinal purposes. I am asthmatic.”