Night Sessions, The (21 page)

“Yes,” said Campbell, “but—”

“Good,” said Jessica. “Have a nice day.”

She rang off.

Campbell stood on the gravel path behind the rear corner of the visitors’ centre. His face felt hot, the sweat on his chest cold. The feeling of having
been fingered, of having been caught out, was the same as that he had felt, twice, in the Carthaginian: when Jessica had first spoken to him, and when he had recognised Orr at the door.
Be sure your sins will find you out.
He stepped forward, placed his palms on the wooden wall of the centre and his forehead against the cold glass of the window. For a moment or two he wanted to let his head sag forward between his outstretched arms, and to vomit on the rough pebbles at his feet.

The nausea passed. With his eyes close to the glass he could see into the room, which happened to be the shop. Bookshelves where tourist guides to New Zealand and Conservation Service guides to Waimangu stood side by side with thick volumes on Flood geology, on starlight and time, on the errors of naturalism and the truths of fundamentalism; where booklets for children about kiwis and penguins, pukekos and tui-tuis shared shelf space with pop-up picture-books showing Adam and Eve walking with dinosaurs in Eden. Souvenir stands upon which models of kiwis in every conceivable material from solar-powered bioplastic to dried tree-fern frond and possum fur pecked or posed amid the feet of mammoths and hadrosaurs and figurines of the first couple, post-lapsarianly clad in miniature tunics of—again—possum fur. Metre-wide sheets of cardboard that could be cut and folded into accurate models of Noah's Ark, on a scale of one centimetre per cubit; plastic animal models (not to scale) separately supplied. Racks of bright card-backed blisterpacks of terabytes of memory, containing games and displays, complex hydraulic Flood models, and entire libraries of creation science. Open-mesh net baskets spilling over with sets of free overlay frames for the walking tour, which could populate the uncanny valley with the whole Noachic menagerie.

Crunch of steps on the gravel. Vermuelen came around the corner.

“You all right, J. R.?”

“Yeah, thanks, I'm fine.”

“You don't look fine.”

“Nah, nah, it's all right. Just a bit of, you know, overload. All the cameras and yelling.”

Vermuelen gave him a sympathetic nod. “Just try to keep away from it. The Institute staff should be here in half an hour. Let them handle the publicity, and let the reporters bloody wait.”

“Too right.” Campbell straightened and sighed. “I have an apatosaur that needs its head examined.”

“You do that,” said Vermuelen. “I'm off down the track to check out the walkway railings at the Black Crater. Catch you later.”

Campbell raised a hand, waved, and turned away. He walked around the back to the workshop shed, hauled the door up and over and stood looking into a deep glass eye, while trying to focus his own thoughts. He made a start by scribbling down the Bible references that Jessica Stopford had given him, intending to look them up later. Right now he had more urgent things to attend to.

Sunday had been grim enough. Shortly before Vermuelen had phoned, Campbell had been sitting on the front step of his shack, basking in the morning sunshine and reading his Bible, when he'd been startled by the silent and unannounced arrival of Joram, one of his robot congregation. Campbell didn't talk to his robots on Sundays—the meetings where he discoursed with them, and by relay with the Free Congregation of West Lothian, took place early on Wednesday mornings, conveniently coinciding with Tuesday evenings in British time. He couldn't really have formulated his reason for not speaking with them on Sundays—there was no question of Sabbath-breaking involved, but Campbell felt that it would be somehow sacrilegious to use the Lord's Day to exercise his eloquence on machines, soulless or (as he still thought, but was no longer inclined to argue) otherwise.

The robot, handsome as a shop-window mannequin inside its long-since stained and frayed suit, had stood in the sunlight with a frown on its chiselled features.

“Mr. Campbell,” it had said, “we have a problem.”

Campbell had assimilated the situation as swiftly as he'd scanned the news reports. After that, he'd looked up at Joram.

“One of you,” he'd said, “was in contact with this Hardcastle—or with a mind-chip embedded in Graham Orr's skull, according to him. So which of you was it?”

“I can't say,” said the robot, ambiguously. “But I can say that we are all very concerned about this. We—all of us robots—are going to conceal ourselves in the bush until the situation becomes clear. We of the fellowship will meet you at the usual place at this time tomorrow, if we're spared.”

And with that, it had gone, ignoring Campbell's protestations. Campbell had returned to scanning the news. He'd been interrupted by the well-meant but distracting call from Cornelius. He'd wanted to cry out his dismay to his colleague, but had resisted the temptation. He had also resisted the temptation to call John Livingston.

Now he regretted not having given in to those temptations. The robots hadn't answered the pleas he'd sent them—by phone, and later, almost despairingly, by voice at one place or another in the bush.

Well, Joram had said that they'd be at the usual meeting place about now. Campbell waited until he heard Vermuelen's car depart down the track. Then he walked down the track himself. He reached the turn-off for the viewpoint for Inferno Crater, and climbed the short steep slope, intending to strike off into the bush towards the meeting place. At the crest, leaning on the railing that supported the information plate, stood a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing rough-walking gear and a bush hat, all new. The stranger peered at Campbell over his frames as he approached.

“Good morning,” said Campbell. “The park isn't open yet.”

“Good morning, John Richard Campbell,” said the stranger. His accent was American. He stuck out his hand. “Brian Walker.”

Campbell shook hands, puzzled. “Are you with the Service?”

Walker looked startled for an instant, then smiled.

“Not the Service you mean,” he said.

Campbell belatedly recognised the man's name, and took a step back.

“You were at St. Faith's yesterday—”

Walker nodded. “Your colleague Cornelius told you that? I got the impression that he was curious about me. He followed me in the evening, I suspect.”

Campbell's heart thudded. “I'd asked him to watch out for strangers in the church, that's all. I was worried about…” He waved an arm. “All that's going on.”

Walker's eyes hooded. “That's all? He's not otherwise involved?”

“Involved in what?”

Walker glanced around; Campbell, almost mirroring him, did likewise. They were alone, amid trees and tree-ferns. Below them the lake hissed and steamed, vapour rising grey from the chill shade to whiten in the low sun.

“Vermuelen is out of earshot,” said Walker. “I can prevent you phoning him quicker than you can blink. No one else is around. The nearest of your robots is a good kilometre away. Please believe me when I say I can finish with you sooner than they can reach us.”

Campbell was much more dismayed by the reference to “your robots” than by the explicit threat.

“I don't understand,” he said, taking another backward step. Walker eyed him with casual amusement.

“I'll explain,” said Walker. He made a chopping motion with his hand. “But first—is Vermuelen involved?”

“Involved in what?” Campbell repeated, feeling stupid.

“Your activities,” said Walker.

“Oh! My activities!” Campbell laughed. “He doesn't even know about…my robots. How do you know?”

“Intelligence,” said Walker, wryly. “So all you think you're involved in is, ah, preaching to robots?”

“If you want to call it that,” said Campbell.

“We can leave that question to the theologians,” said Walker. “The point is that your robots are, or have been, in contact with the one that is causing so much havoc and alarm in Scotland.”

“Cornelius doesn't know—” Campbell stopped. “What are
you
involved in?” he demanded.

Walker propped his elbow again on the railing, looking relaxed. “I work for the United States government,” he said. He opened his hands, upturned. “I'm telling you this because I'm gambling that you don't have a clue what you're up to your neck in—and that if you do, you're smart enough to know that the only way to save your neck is to cooperate with me.”

Campbell shook his head, feeling dizzy and wishing he could sit down.

“Cooperate in what?” Again with the stupid way of asking—

Walker told him. It took him ten minutes. At the end of it, Campbell stared at Walker and asked:

“Can you give me any reason why I should believe you?”

“None at all,” said Walker cheerfully. “Still—‘The just shall live by faith,’ eh?”

On the Monday the weather turned wet. At 7:20 a.m. Ferguson and Hutchins sat in an unmarked car about thirty metres down the street from the offices of Livingston Engineering. Skulk crouched in the rear footwell. Rain drummed on the carbon-fibre roof and flowed down the diamond pane of the windshield in a pattern subtly different from that produced by rain on glass. Ferguson, sipping coffee from a cardboard cup, eyed the blurry shapes of aircraft dropping through the low cloud overhead and felt that on the whole he preferred airports the way they used to be.

At 7:25 a.m. a man under an umbrella walked to the office, rolled up the shutters on the windows and unlocked the door. He backed inside, shaking his umbrella. The lights came on. Over the next few minutes a dozen or so people arrived. At 7:35 a.m. Ferguson threw the last of the coffee into the rain, crushed the cup and turned to Hutchins.

“Ready?”

Hutchins pulled the hood of her waterproof over her head and nodded. Skulk stirred its long limbs.

“Right,” said Ferguson.

The three of them reached the door together. Ferguson decided that leaving Hutchins in the rain one second longer was less impolite than sending her inside first, so he sent Skulk inside ahead and stepped in behind the machine just in time for the first startled looks.

Standard open-plan office, space-industry pix on the walls, reception desk, ten workstations, frosted-glass door to the boss's sanctum at the back. Skulk dripped water on the carpet in front of the receptionist and announced in a carrying voice: “Stay at your desks. Continue your work. Don't leave the room without permission. This is a visit, not a raid.”

Ferguson barged down the aisle, Hutchins behind him, and opened the boss's door without knocking. The office was small, brightened by a window at the back. Clutches of paper, posters, and commercial calendars hung from pegs on the walls. Two worn chairs stood in front of the desk; beside it was a
hatstand on which were hung a homburg and a black coat. The desktop was piled with papers and cluttered with machine components, small spanners and screwdrivers, pens, a slate and a handset phone. The man behind the desk had wavy brown hair down to the collar of his white shirt, and bright grey eyes in a lean, lined face.

Ferguson held up his card. “DI Ferguson, DS Hutchins.”

The man stood up, smiling, hand extended.

“John Livingston,” he said. “Good morning, officers. That was fast.”

Ferguson returned the handshake, frowning.

“Fast?”

“Aye,” said Livingston, gesturing them to the seats. “I'm just ten minutes off the phone to the police. Terrible business, terrible.”

“Which business in particular?” Ferguson asked, hanging his waterproof on the back of the chair.

“About poor Mr. Orr being mixed up in all this,” said Livingston, nodding toward his desk slate. “Just saw it on the news when I came in, got on the phone right away.”

“You're telling me you've just found out?” said Ferguson.

“Aye,” said Livingston.

“The name and face and description have been out since Saturday evening,” said Ferguson. “And you hadn't seen it?”

Livingston shook his head. “I don't look at the news from Saturday evening to Monday morning.”

“And you don't answer the phone either. Why not?”

“I don't believe I have to justify that,” said Livingston. “A man needs his rest.”

“Why not even an answering service, here at the office or on your personal phone?”

Livingston shrugged. “As I said.”

“And none of your colleagues or acquaintances thought to inform you?”

“It's possible that none of them knew,” said Livingston.

“Knew what?”

“That Graham Orr had ever worked for my company, or that I knew him at all.”

“Really,” said Ferguson. “Not one of your employees or friends knew about the job on the coastal mechs?”

Livingston shrugged. “Why should they? It was a one-off contract. The poor fellow got the job through me personally—the company is on the
military approved list. I'm aye looking out for new opportunities. I went for that one when it came up, because I knew Orr, and knew his skills, and I could vouch for him. He made most of the money on it, I can tell you that.”

“An eighty-twenty split,” said Hutchins. “On a ten-thousand-pound job.”

“Precisely,” said Livingston. “A couple of grand in our accounts. Same sort of sum every time I brokered a job for him. I'm sure Jean—ah, Miss Walton, our administrator—saw the entries, but there's no reason she'd recall the name. We deal in much bigger jobs most of the time.”

“Why did you give that job to Graham Orr in particular?”

“Like I said, he had the skills, and I knew him.” Livingston's mouth twitched. “
Thought
I knew him, I should say. I had no idea he also went by the name of Hardcastle, and passed as a robot. A robot! And in these clubs of all places! I don't know what to say, inspector, sergeant. I'm shocked.”

He didn't look or sound shocked. Saddened, more like.

“We're almost completely convinced,” said Ferguson, “that the man you knew as Graham Orr was indeed a robot.”

Now Livingston really did look shocked. He sat up sharply, his ruddy face paling.

“A robot? Never! I can't believe that.”

“Why not, Mr. Livingston?”

“I've—I've broken bread with the man, I've conversed with him, about—well, everything, you could say. He's been under my roof, at my table. Have you ever seen a robot eat and drink, inspector?”

“No,” said Ferguson. “I've only once to my knowledge ever seen a humanoid robot in the flesh, so to speak. But I'm sure that at least going through the motions of eating and drinking is not beyond their capacity. And if you're convinced you couldn't have been fooled, then I can assure you that he, or it, managed to fool several genuine mutilated war veterans.”

“Aye, I suppose…” Livingston's voice trailed off. His gaze wandered.

“How did you know him, and how long have you known him?”

Livingston's attention snapped back.

“I met him maybe ten years ago,” he said. “Before I started the company I was a freelance engineer. Self-employed, working my way up. So was he. He and I did a few jobs together, off and on, over five years or so. You can find the records if you like. He struck me as a very competent roboticist, not surprising given his army experience, and a fine man. Sincere, serious. He stayed over with me and my family a few times. I believe—I believed he found great comfort from being with people who didn't find him repulsive.
Even the children were soon quite at ease with him—I insisted on politeness and respect for him from the beginning, but he won them over beyond that to being friendly. A good lesson for them, I thought, not to judge by the external appearance.”

“You got on well, then.”

“Aye, we did that. But he was never as committed to finding work as I was. I put it down to the Oil for Blood money, and to not having a family to support. In any case, we didn't see as much of each other for a few years. Every so often he'd contact me asking if I had any work going. I usually didn't, but whenever I saw a suitable contract he came to mind, and—well, you know the rest. Little did I think he'd use my last such favour to kill the bishop.”

“You couldn't have foreseen that,” Ferguson said. “What I'm wondering is, did you never think to check his background?”

“Why should I? What didn't I know about his background?”

“That Graham Orr—the
real
Graham Orr, that is—was killed in the Faith Wars?”

Again Livingston looked shocked.

“How do you know?”

Ferguson glanced at Hutchins. She leaned forward, holding out her hand-held. “This is from the
Belfast Telegraph
, and army records.”

Livingston scrolled through it, scowling.

“Nah,” he said, handing the device back. “Some mistake.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

“I'm sure he's a man, his name's Graham Orr, and everything he ever said about his wartime experience is consistent with this man's record—except being killed!”

“You never thought to check?”

Livingston looked irritated. “Is it your habit to check your friends’ records to make sure they haven't died?”

“Did you know of his religious views?”

Livingston rocked sideways a little, as if knocked off balance by the change of tack.

“What's that to do with anything?”

“Come, come, Mr. Livingston,” said Ferguson. “We have good evidence that he murdered a priest, then a bishop. You can see why we might suspect some religious motivation.”

“Anti-religious, more like it!”

“No, Mr. Livingston. We've ruled that out. Besides, we have good reason
to believe he had a very specific religious motivation. Do you know anything of that?”

Livingston leaned back. “He was a Christian, to the best of my knowledge.”

“Then why did you suggest an anti-religious motivation?” Hutchins asked.

Livingston faced her, spreading his hands. “If I was wrong about his very
nature
, detective sergeant, might I not be just as mistaken as to his religion?”

“That's a rather hypothetical question,” said Hutchins.

Livingston made no reply.

“What kind of Christian,” Ferguson asked, “did you believe he was?”

“A born-again Christian,” said Livingston, without irony. “As to his denomination, if that's what you're asking, it's right there in the article you showed me. Presbyterian Church of Northern Ireland.”

“And not,” Ferguson asked, “let's say, the Congregation of the Third Covenant?”

“The what?” Livingston closed his eyes and shook his head. “‘The Congregation of the Third Covenant’?” His eyes opened. “Never heard of it. What about it?”

Ferguson fished inside his jacket and passed across copies of the five Third Covenant broadsides. Livingston looked them over, sighing and shaking his head.

“Sad stuff,” he said, handing them back. “Nothing like anything I ever heard from Graham, I'll tell you that.”

“We found evidence that he printed them.”

“I'm baffled, inspector. Sorry that anyone I knew could come up with that sort of seditious nonsense.”

“There's a question I can't legally ask you,” said Ferguson, stuffing the tracts back in his pocket. “Not without putting you under arrest, anyway. I'm sure you know what it is.”

Livingston looked him in the eye. “I'm not ashamed to own that I'm a believer,” he said. “Sorry if that puts me under suspicion. But I had no knowledge of any of this.”

“So why did you call the police?” Hutchins asked.

“Same reason as you came here,” said Livingston. “As soon as I saw the news, I knew you'd make the connection with my company sooner rather than later. Thought I'd best get my word in first.”

“The calls are logged,” Hutchins warned.

“Good,” said Livingston. He stood up. “Well, if that's all…”

“For the moment,” said Ferguson. “If you hear anything from Orr, or Hardcastle, you'll let us know at once.”

“Of course,” said Livingston. He nodded at each of them in turn. “Well, good morning to you, inspector, sergeant. And now, if you don't mind…”

“We'll see ourselves out,” said Ferguson.

The rain hadn't stopped. Back in the car, Ferguson barely had time to wipe the drops from his forelock and eyebrows before Hutchins turned on him.

“We should have had Skulk in there!” she said. “That man's a lying bastard!”

“I wouldn't go that far,” said Ferguson. “But I don't need to be a leki to know he isn't telling the whole truth.”

“Understatement of the year!”

Skulk stretched a tentacle past Ferguson's shoulder, scooped a chamois from the door pocket, and settled back to wipe raindrops off itself.

“If I may,” it said, above the squeaking noises, “the office door was hardly soundproof. I heard every word of the conversation. The stress patterns in Mr. Livingston's voice may have been those of a man with something to hide, but not of a guilty man.”

“You mean he's guilty of something else,” said Hutchins.

Ferguson locked his seat belt and pressed the starter switch. The engine whined as the flywheel powered up, then steadied to a hum.

“Greensides,” said Ferguson. He clicked to automatic, released the handbrake, and turned to Hutchins.

“Tax evasion, do you think?”

“What—? Oh. I see. Very funny, sir. Skulk, if you're looking for a place to wring that rag out…”

“Don't even think about it,” said Ferguson. “If you're in want of something to do, the two of you, please arrange a full-on surveillance of Mr. John Livingston. Apply for a phone-tap warrant. Business, home, phone clip—the lot. Speaking of phones, the only reason I can think of for their being off on a Sunday is that the man's a strict Sabbatarian—which, around here, means strict Presbyterian. See if we can find out anything about that, discreetly. And in the meantime, Shonagh, get going on a trawl of his record, and his company's.”

“That's what I was hoping you'd say, sir,” said Hutchins.

The car sped towards the motorway entrance ramp. Ferguson tipped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. “Wake me at Greensides.”