with some harmless nano and similar equipment to this sets up a kind of quantum entanglement. We use some of their brain centres without them being aware.”
“How do you know it’s harmless?” the pathologist demands.
“We’ve done animal trials, human trials—it has no effect.”
“Does that cause the blue colouration?”
“Probably. After exposure to air.”
“Sunil, I’ll believe you for now, but you may have to prove that to the Examining Magistrate.”
“Fine. Now—we should not wait too long.”
Selina gestures to the equipment. “Describe,” she says.
Sunil presses some buttons on the console. The light in the translucent cube flickers. “I’m attempting to re- entangle the nano,” he says. “I’m recording these data for the report.” Suddenly the segments of brain tissue appear like a model in the cube. He flicks a switch, and false colour marks some regions in red and orange. “The visual centres are destroyed,” he says. “The nano particles store short-term information in a buffer for about ten seconds before loss of entanglement. It looks to me like we may have something coherent in the superior temporal gyrus region. Auditory processing. This may take some time to extract.”
“How much time?”
“About an hour.”
“Coffee?” she asks.
The Examining Magistrate is the tough sixty-year-old son of a Corfiot fisherman. He fought his way up against the power of the handful of wealthy families which have controlled large sections of the island for hundreds of years. Panyotis is not afraid of anybody—not even Lynne. He looks around the people in the conference room— Dimitris, Lynne, Danny, Jack, Sunil, Selina, and assorted detectives, sip water and await his words.
“This is a Greek matter. I accept that two British nationals have died, but that does not mean that a film company can become part of the investigation. Lieutenant Koukoulades—please explain.”
Spiros is wishing he were anywhere else. “Magistrate,” he says, “I agree with you, but these young women were unusually famous.” He leafs through a stack of tabloids on the table with headlines like “Goodnight Angel” and “Amber Falls to Her Death.” “The film company has information that may be important to the investigation and for now at least I believe we should listen to what they have to say.”
The magistrate rests his chin on his fist and looks at Lynne. “Make your case,” he says.
Is the power of the Glasgow stare up to the power of the magistrate’s dangerous dark eyes? She sucks in a breath and says, “Several of our key actors died within minutes of each other. Two could be a coincidence, sir, but five or six? I think not.” It’s the first time she’s used the word sir in thirty years. “I hope you will agree that there is prima facie evidence of a conspiracy. We are cooperating closely with the authorities in several countries to identify the source of this murderous attack. We have technology which may assist the investigation, and we have placed it at your disposal.”
“I’m prepared to listen,” the magistrate says, slowly, “but I doubt if any unproven technology will be permitted in court. Doctor Mariatos has also made it clear to me that your secret technology might have been a causative factor in the deaths of these people. She has professionally and properly given way as senior scientific officer to two senior forensic pathologists from Athens, who should be arriving at the airport within the hour.”
“Our system is highly confidential!” Lynne says forcefully.
“This may be a murder investigation. I will decide what is confidential. Doctor Mariatos—please proceed.”
Selina stands at the end of the table and outlines the forensic analysis of the bodies of Amber and Angel. The results are consistent with a long fall and an overdose of sleeping pills. However, she will want to add to this after Sunil’s evidence. She then formally seeks the Examining Magistrate’s permission to allow Sunil Gupta to display the results of his tests. He nods.
Sunil inserts a disc into the Blu-ray player and coughs nervously. “I understand the magistrate’s scepticism of unproven technology. What we have done today has never been done before. It’s a side effect of the way we can interact with our actors’ brains.
“We have a poor quality sound retrieval of the last ten seconds of Julia Simpson’s life.” He presses the remote. There’s the sound of a petrol engine, then a bumping noise, a second louder metallic screech, a woman gasping, and a scream. The magistrate turns to Spiros and raises his eyebrows.
“Magistrate, we have found traces of impacted black car enamel paint on the left rear of the dune buggy consistent with an impact from behind.”
The magistrate makes a continue gesture to Sunil. “We have a rather poor snapshot of the last few seconds of Angel Argent—Audrey Turner. To show this I will have to use our new immersive technology, which we call InifiniDy. Initially I will play it at fifty percent opacity—then, perhaps, at full intensity.” Sunil gestures at the black box which sits on a table near the front of the room. The chairs, tables, and assembled people become translucent. They are all seemingly in the equally translucent kitchen of apartment 101 in Agios Stefanos. They feel overwhelming terror and sadness. A dark figure stands before them silhouetted by golden evening sun from the window, and they feel a cold spray in their nostrils. An American voice says “Goodnight Angel,” and the superposed scenes cross-fade back to the police room. There’s a long pause, then Sunil asks, “Shall I play it at full intensity?”
“I think not,” the magistrate says. “That seems to be adequately intense for me. Selina Maria?”
She’s surprised at his use of her Christian name. He’s obviously disturbed. “There are possible indications of methyl alcohol effects in the nasal tissue. I have sent samples by air to Athens for mass spectroscopy. Such things are very difficult to establish but it is possible that a propellant aerosol spray could have been used in this case.”
The magistrate sits back in his chair. “Many years ago,” he says, “when I was young I was in a scene in the James Bond film
“Nor cremated?” Lynne asks.
“We do not burn bodies in Greece,” says the magistrate. “We live in hope of the resurrection.”
He stands. They all stand. He walks out. There’s a pause and then a blinding flash. Alexandros comes through the door like a pantomime demon arriving onstage. He’s very good looking, Alexandros. The day outside is ripped with a deafening tearing sound and then the deep echoing crack of thunder rattles the windows. The sky cuts instantly from blue to slate grey and huge raindrops waterfall down the glass. It doesn’t drizzle much in the Ionian Islands—you’re either in bright sunshine or underwater. Heralded by Zeus, the god of thunder, Alexandros walks across to Spiros and whispers in his ear. Lynne stares at him. He’s actually having a physical effect on her.
Spiros says, “Please excuse me,” and he and Alexandros leave the room.
“Latest?” Lynne asks Danny. He’s had a tablet on his lap throughout the meeting. “We’ve got data from some bodies,” he says. “We couldn’t get any cooperation in Kiev. We’ve lost Tarquin to a very efficient Russian-built crematorium.”
Alexandros lays half a dozen photographs on Spiros’s desk. “I’ve got all the pictures I could from the tourists on buses in Paleo that afternoon.”
A lean ginger-haired man is crouching on the perimeter of The Golden Fox pool. He is raising a top-range Cannon EOS digital SLR camera towards his face. Amber Holiday stands by the pool, shaking water droplets off her perfect body. Flip pictures. Tourists are climbing off a bus, mugging into the camera, and in the background there’s a black 4?4. Amber is just visible through a taverna window climbing into the dune buggy and a lean man with a hint of red hair is walking through the car park.
“We’ve checked the number plate. Car hire firm at the harbour. He paid cash. Given the timing he was probably off the ferry from Brindisi. We’re checking the CCTV in the harbour.”
