«No.»
«So who gave it the pistol?»
«It was in a flight bag, which was left on a polystone outcrop just along the shore from here.»
«And what about Eden, does it remember who left the bag there?»
Rolf and some of the others were beginning to look resentful. Lumbered with a dunderhead primitive for a boss, blundering about asking the obvious and not understanding a word spoken. I was beginning to feel isolated, wondering what they were saying to each other via affinity. One or two of them had facial expressions which were changing minutely, visible signs of silent conversation. Did they know they were giving themselves away like that?
My PNC wafer bleeped, and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket. «Chief Parfitt, this is Eden. I'm sorry, but I have no recollection of who placed the bag on the stone. It has been there for three days, which exceeds the extent of my short-term memory.»
«OK, thanks.» I glanced round the expectant faces. «First thing, do we know for sure this is Penny Maowkavitz?»
«Absolutely,» a woman said. She was in her late forties, half a head shorter than everyone else, with dark cinnamon skin. I got the impression she was more weary than alarmed by the murder. «That's Penny, all right.»
«And you are?»
«Corrine Arburry, I'm Penny's doctor.» She nudged the corpse with her toe. «But if you want proof, turn her over.»
I looked at Rolf. «Have you taken the in situ videos?»
«Yes, sir.»
«OK, turn her over.»
After a moment of silence, my police officers gallantly shuffled to one side and let the two ambulance paramedics ease the corpse onto its back. I realized the light was changing, the mock-silver moonlight deepening to a flaming tangerine. Dr Arburry knelt down as the artificial dawn blossomed all around. She tugged the blue blouse out of the waistband. Penny Maowkavitz was wearing a broad green nylon strap around her abdomen, it held a couple of white plastic boxes tight against her belly.
«These are the vector regulators I supplied,» Corrine Arburry said. «I was treating Penny for cancer. It's her all right.»
«Video her like this, then take her to the morgue, please,» I said. «I don't suppose we'll need an autopsy for cause of death.»
«Hardly,» Corrine Arburry said flatly as she rose up.
«Fine, but I would like some tests run to establish she was alive up until the moment she was shot. I would also like the bullet itself. Eden, do you know where that is?»
«No, I'm sorry, it must be buried in the soil. But I can give you a rough estimate based on the trajectory and velocity.»
«Rolf, seal off the area, we need to do that anyway, but I want it searched thoroughly. Have you taken the pistol from the chimp?»
«Yes, sir.»
«Do we have a Ballistics Division?»
«Not really. But some of the company engineering labs should be able to run the appropriate tests for us.»
«OK, get it organized.» I glanced at the chimp. It hadn't moved, big black eyes staring mournfully. «And I want that thing locked up in the station's jail.»
Rolf turned a snort into a cough. «Yes, sir.»
«Presumably we do have an expert on servitor neurology and psychology in Eden?» I asked patiently.
«Yes.»
«Good. Then I'd like him to examine the chimp, and maybe try and recover the memory of who gave it the order to shoot Maowkavitz. Until then, the chimp is to be isolated, understood?»
He nodded grimly.
Corrine Arburry was smiling at Rolf's discomfort. A sly expression which I thought contained a hint of approval, too.
«You ought to consider how the gun was brought inside the habitat in the first place,» she said. «And where it's been stored since. If it had ever been taken out of that flight bag the personality should have perceived it and alerted the police straight away. It ought to know who the bag belonged to, as well. But it doesn't.»
«Was the pistol a police weapon?» I asked.
«No,» Rolf said. «It's some kind of revolver, very primitive.»
«OK, run a make, track down the serial number. You know the procedure, whatever you can find on it.»
The start of the working day found me in the Governor's office. Our official introductory meeting, what should have been a cheery getting-to-know-you session, and I had to report the habitat's first ever murder to him. I tried to tell myself the day couldn't get worse. But I lacked faith.
The axial light-tube had resumed its usual blaze, turning the habitat cavern into a solid fantasy ideal of tropical wilderness. I did my best to ignore the view as Fasholé Nocord waved me into a seat before his antique wooden desk.
Eden's governor was in his mid-fifties, with a frame and vigour which suggested considerable genetic adaptation. I've grown adept at recognizing the signs over the years; for a start they all tend to be well educated, because even now it's really only the wealthy who can afford such treatments for their offspring. And health is paramount for them, the treatments always focus on boosting their immunology system, improving organ efficiency, dozens of subtle metabolic enhancements. They possess a presence, almost like a witch's glamour ; I suppose knowing they're not going to fall prey to disease and illness, that they'll almost certainly see out a century, gives them an impeccable self-confidence. Given their bearing, cosmetic adaptation is almost an irrelevance, certainly it's not as widespread. But in Fasholé Nocord's case I suspected an exception. His skin was just too black, the classically noble face too chiselled.
«Any progress?» he asked straight away.
«It's only been a couple of hours. I've got my officers working on various aspects; but they aren't used to this type of investigation. Come to that, there's never been a large-scale police investigation in Eden before. With the habitat's all-over sensory perception there's been no need until today.»
«How could it happen?»
«You tell me. I'm not an expert on this place yet.»
«Get a symbiont implant. Today. I don't know what the company was thinking of, sending you out here without one.»
«Yes, sir.»
His lips twitched into a rueful grin. «All right, Harvey, don't go all formal on me. If ever I needed anyone on my side, then it's you. The timing of this whole thing stinks.»
«Sir?»
He leant forward over the desk, hands clasped earnestly. «I suppose you realize ninety per cent of the population suspect I have something to do with Penny's murder?»
«No,» I said cautiously. «Nobody's told me that.»
«Figures,» he muttered. «Did Michael brief you on Boston?»