The Suspect Genome

Two — A Suspicious Fall

Detective Amanda Patterson had never visited Bisbrooke before. It was a tiny village tucked away along the side of a deep valley just outside Uppingham. Unremarkable and uneventful even by Rutland's standards, which made it a contender for dullest place in Europe. Until today, that is, when one of the uniforms had responded to a semi-hysterical call from a cleaning agency operative, and confirmed the existence of a body with associated suspicious circumstances.

The unseasonal rain beat down heavily as she drove over from Oakham, turning the road into a dangerous skid-rink. Then she had almost missed the turning off the A47. As it happened, that was the least of her navigational worries.

“Call him again,” she told Alison Weston. The probationary detective was sitting in the passenger seat beside her, squinting through the fogged-up wind screen trying to locate some landmark.

“No way. Uniform will crap themselves laughing at us if I ask for directions,” Alison complained. “It's got to be here somewhere. There can't be more than five buildings in the whole godforsaken village.”

Amanda let it go. Hailstones were falling with the rain now, their impacts making clacking sounds on the car's bodywork. She braked at yet another T-junction.

Bisbrooke was woven together by a lace work of roads barely wide enough for a single vehicle. They all curved sharply, making her nervous about oncoming cars, and they were all sunk into earthen gullies topped with hedges of thick bamboo that had been planted to replace the long-dead privet and hawthorn of the previous century. With the rain and hail pummeling the wind screen, it was perilously close to driving blind. The only clue they were even in the village was the occasional glimpse of ancient stone cottages and brick bungalows huddled at the end of gravelled drives.

“You must be able to see the church,” she said. The address they had been given was in Church Lane.

Alison scanned the swaying tops of the bamboo shoots. “No.” She gave her cybofax an instruction, and it produced a satnav map with their location given as a small pink dot. “Okay, try that one, down there on the left.”

Amanda edged the car cautiously along the short stretch of road where Alison was pointing. The tarmac was reduced to a pair of tire tracks separated by a rich swathe of emerald moss.

“Finally!” The junction ahead had a small street sign for Church Lane; a white-painted iron rectangle almost overgrown by a flamboyant purple clematis. This road was even narrower. It led them past the village church, a squat building made from rust-colored stone that had long since been converted into accommodation units for refugee families.

The lane ran on past a big old farmhouse, and ended at a new building perched on the end of the village. Church Vista Apartments. Its design was pure Californian-Italian, completely out of place in the heart of rural England. Five luxury apartments sharing a single long building with a stable block and multi-port garage forming a courtyard at the rear. Climbing roses planted along the walls hadn't grown halfway up their trellises yet.

There was a tall security gate in the courtyard wall. Amanda held her police identity card up to the key, and it swung open for her. A police car and the cleaning agency van were parked on the cobbles beyond. Amanda drew up next to them. The rain was easing off.

They moved briskly over the cobbles to the door of apartment three. One of the uniforms was standing just inside, holding the heavy glass-and-wood door open. She didn't have to flash her card at him, as Rutland's police force was small enough for them all to know each other.

“Morning, Rex,” she said as she hurried into the small hallway. He nodded politely as she shook the water from her jacket. “What have we got?”

“Definitely a corpse.”

Alison slipped in and immediately blew her cheeks out. Her breath materialized in the air in front of her. “God, it's bloody freezing in here.”

“Air-conditioning's on full,” Rex said. “I left it that way, I'm afraid. Scene-of-crime, and all that.”

“Good,” Amanda muttered, not meaning it. The chill air was blowing over her wet clothes, giving her goosebumps.

Rex led them into the apartment. It was open-plan downstairs, a single space with white walls and terra-cotta tile flooring, Mexican blackwood cabinets and shelving were lined up around the edges. There were pictures hanging on every wall; prints, chalk and charcoal sketches, oils, watercolors, silver-patina photographs. Most of them featured young female nudes. Three big plump cream-colored leather settees formed a conversation area in the middle, surrounding a Persian rug. A woman in the cleaning agency's mauve tunic sat on one of the settees, looking shaken.

The front of the room was twice the height of the back. Wide wrought-iron stairs curved up to a balcony which ran the entire width, giving access to all the upstairs rooms. A sheer window wall in front of the balcony flooded the whole area with light.

The corpse lay at the foot of the stairs. A man in his mid-to-late twenties, wearing a pale gray dressing gown, his legs akimbo on the tiles, head twisted at a nasty angle. Some blood had dribbed from his nose. It was dry and flaking now.

There were three air-conditioning grilles set in the edge of the balcony. One of them was right above the corpse, blowing a stream of the frosty air directly over him.

“He fell down the stairs?” Alison asked.

“Looks like it,” Rex said.

“So was it a fall, or a push?” Amanda wondered out loud.

“I had a quick look around upstairs,” Rex said. “No sign of any struggle. The main bed's been used, but everything seems to be in place as far as I can tell.”

Amanda wrinkled her nose up. There was a faint smell in the air, unpleasant and familiar. “How long's he been here?”

“Possibly a day,” Rex said.

Alison gestured at the window wall. “And nobody saw him?”

“One-way glass,” Amanda said. It had that slight give away gray tint. She stared through it, understanding why the apartments had been built here. The last of the rain clouds had drifted away, allowing the hot sun to shine down. It was a magnificent view out over the junction of two broad rolling grassland valleys. In the distance she could see an antique windmill, its wooden sail painted white. A long communal garden stretched out ahead of her, a paddock beyond that. There was a circular swimming pool twenty meters away, surrounded by a flagstone patio. Wooden-slat sun loungers were clustered around stripy parasols.

“All right,” she said wearily. “Let's do the preliminary assessment.”

Alison opened her cybofax. “When was the body discovered?”

“Approximately 8:45 this morning,” Rex nodded toward the cleaning woman. “Helen?”

“That's right,” the woman stammered. “I saw him—Mr. Tyler—as soon as I came in. I called the police right away.”

Amanda pursed her lips and knelt down beside the body. The handsome face had quite a few resonances for her. Byrne Tyler. She remembered him mainly from Marina Days, a soap set amid Peterborough's yachting fraternity—though 90 percent of it was shot in the studio with the all-action boating sequences cooked on a graphics mainframe. That had been five or six years ago; Byrne played a teenage hunk crewman. But he had left and gone onto star in action-thriller dramas and interactives. Pretty bad ones if she remembered her tabloid gossip right. There would be media attention with this one.

She stood up. “Helen, was the door locked when you arrived?”

“Yes. And the alarm was on. I have the code, and my palm is one of the keys. Mr. Tyler was happy with that. He was a nice man. He always gave me a Christmas bonus.”

“I'm sure he was lovely. Did you do all his cleaning?”

“Yes. Twice a week. Tuesday and Friday.”

“Which means he could have been here since Tuesday. She rubbed her arms, trying to generate some warmth. “Rex, go see if the air-conditioning was set like this or it's glitched. Alison, look around for empty bottles, or anything else,” she said pointedly. It could so easily be an accident. Drunk, stoned, or even sober, a fall could happen. And God knows what a showbiz type like Tyler would take for amusement in the privacy of his secluded secure home.

Amanda went upstairs to check the main bedroom. The door was open, revealing a huge circular waterbed with a black silk sheet over the mattress: there was no top sheet. An equally large mirror was fixed to the ceiling above it. She shook her head in bemusement at the stereotyping. Exactly the kind of seduction chamber a list celebrity sex symbol was expected to have. She remembered most of his scenes in Marina Days involved him being stripped to the waist, or wearing tight T-shirts.

Apart from the offensive decor, there was nothing overtly suspicious. A slower look and she realized the sheet was rumpled, pillows were scattered about. She stared. One person wouldn't mess up a bed that much, surely? On the bedside cabinet was a champagne bottle turned upside down in a silver ice bucket, a single cut-crystal flute beside it.

When she went back downstairs, Rex told her the air-conditioning was set at maximum. Alison was wearing plastic gloves; she held up a clear zip bag with a silver-plated infuser in it.

“Damn,” Amanda grunted. “Okay, call the scene-of-crime team, and forensic. Let's find out exactly what happened here. And tell the uniform division we'll need help to cordon off the area.”

Forty minutes later, Denzil Osborne drove up in the forensic team's white van. Alone. Amanda always found Denzil immensely reassuring. It was probably the phlegmatic way the forensic officer treated crime scenes when he arrived. Nothing ever fazed him.

“Where's the scene-of-crime team?” she asked as soon as he eased his huge frame out of the van.

“Vernon says he wants hard evidence there's been a crime before he'll authorize that kind of expense.”

Amanda felt her cheeks reddening. All those orders she'd snapped out in front of Alison were making her look stupid now, empty wishes showing where the true authority in the police force lay. England's police had got rid of the PSP political officers observing their cases for ideological soundness, only for the New Conservatives to replace them all with accountants. She wasn't sure which was worse.

“And the uniform division?”

He winked broadly. “You've got Rex, haven't you?”

“Sod it,” she snarled. “Come on, this way.”

Denzil took one look at Byrne Tyler's sprawled body and said: “Ah yes, I see why you wanted forensic now. Of course, I'm no expert, but I think he may have fallen down the stairs.”

She stuck her hands on her hips. “I want to know if he was pushed. I also want to know if he was even alive up on the balcony when it happened.”

Denzil put his case on the floor beside Tyler, and lowered his bulk down next to it, wincing as his knees creaked.

“And you should lose some weight,” she said.

“Come horizontal jogging with me—I'd lose kilos every night.”

“That's sexual harassment.” She just managed to keep a straight face in front of Alison.

He grinned wildly. “Yes please.”

“Just tell me what happened here.”

Denzil opened his case, revealing a plethora of specialist 'ware modules. He pulled on some tight plastic gloves before selecting a sensor wand which he waved over the dead man's face: then he stopped and peered closer. “Ah, a celebrity death. Best kind. Did you see his last? Night Squad III: Descent of Angels. Saving the world from card-carrying terrorists yet again. There was some cool helijets in that. They had nuclear-pumped X-ray lasers; cut clean thorough buildings.”

Chuckling, Denzil resumed his scan of Tyler's face. “Shame about the air-conditioning,” he said. “I can't work a simple temperature assessment on him.”

“That's what made me wonder,” Amanda said. “If he did get pushed then we won't be able to pinpoint the time very easily.”

“Hmm. Maybe not pinpoint, but let's try something a little more detailed.” Denzil replaced the sensor wand and took another cylinder from his case. It had a needle fifteen centimeters long protruding from one end, which Denzil slowly inserted into Tyler's abdomen then withdrew equally carefully. “Anything else immediately suspicious?”

Alison held up the zip bag with the infuser, and another bag with vials. “We think he was infusing this. Probably syntho.”

“Where have you been, young lady? I'll have you know, it's dream punch this season for the glitterati. Couple of levels up from syntho, it's supposed to stimulate your pleasure center and memories at the same time. Every hit a wet dream.”

“Can you walk around when you're tripping it?” Alison asked.

“Okay, good point. They normally just crash out and drool a lot.”

“I'll need DNA samples from the bed as well,” Amanda said. “I think he had someone up there before he died.”

Denzil gave her a curious look. “Vernon won't give you the budget for that kind of work over. I'm just authorized for a body analysis, determine cause of death, that kind of thing.”

“Just do what you can for me, okay.”

“Okay. CID's paying.” The cylinder with the needle bleeped, and he consulted the graphics displayed on its screen. “According to cellular decay, he died sometime on Wednesday night, between 2200 hours and 1:30.”

“That's a big window. Is that the best you can give me?”

“I always give you my best, Amanda. That's the preliminary, anyway. Let me get him into the lab and I can probably shave half an hour off that for you. The delay and this bloody arctic temperature doesn't help.”

Amanda stood up and turned to Alison. “There's some reasonable security 'ware here. See what kind of records are available for this week, especially Wednesday evening. Rex, take a full statement from Helen, and let her go. And I want this place sealed as soon as the body's removed. We'll get authority to run a proper site examination eventually.”

“You really think this was a murder?” Denzil asked.

“Too many things are wrong,” Amanda said. “Somebody told me once: there's no such thing as coincidence.”

Inspector Vernon Langley was putting his jacket on when Amanda walked into his small shabby office. He took one look at her, slumped his shoulders and groaned. “I'm due out for lunch,” he said defensively.

“I was due a scene-of-crime team,” she shot back.

“All right.” He sat back behind his desk and waved her into a spare seat. “Amanda, you know we're severely restricted on how much we can spend on each case. Some syntho-head fell down stairs. Bag him up and notify the relatives.”

“I think he was murdered.”

Vernon grimaced. “Not the air-conditioning, please.”

“Not by itself, no. But Denzil scanned the control box. No fingerprints. It had been wiped clean with a damp kitchen cloth.”

“Means nothing. The cleaning lady could have done that on her last visit.”

“Unlikely. Vernon, you just don't have the air-conditioning on that cold, not for days at a time. I also had Alison check the security 'ware. A car left at 23:13, Wednesday night—a Rover Ingalo registered to Claire Sullivan. It's loaded into Church Vista Apartments security list as an approved visitor for Byrne Tyler, so the gate opens automatically for it. Alison's mining the Home Office circuit for Sullivan now.”

Vernon scratched at his chin. “I took a look at Denzil's preliminary file; time of death is very loose. This Sullivan woman will simply claim Tyler was alive when she left.”

“Of course she will,” Amanda said with a hint of irritation. “That doesn't mean we don't ask her.”

Vernon looked unhappy.

“Oh, come on, ” she exclaimed.

“All right. I'll give you the time to interview her. But you don't get anything else without a positive result.”

“Well, hey, thanks.”

“I'm sorry, Amanda,” he gave her a resigned smile. “Things just ain't what they used to be around here.”

“Someone like Byrne Tyler is bound to have crime insurance coverage. We'll get the money to investigate properly. It won't even come out of your budget.”

Vernon's mood darkened still further. “I'm sure he has coverage. Unlike seventy percent of the population.”

Alison had tracked down Claire Sullivan's address, which was in Uppingham. She had also prepared quite a briefing file for Amanda, most of it mined from tabloid databases.

Amanda let the probationary detective drive to the Sullivan bungalow as she scanned the file on her cybofax. “Tyler was engaged to Tamzin Sullivan?”

“Yep, Claire's big sister. She's a model, got a contract with the Dermani house. Mainly on the back of the publicity she and Tyler were getting. They've hit the showbiz party trail extensively since the engagement was announced. You open your front door in the morning, and they'll be there for it. On their own, neither of them was important enough to get an image on the gossip 'casts; together they rate airtime. It helps that they have the same management agency.”

Amanda looked at the image of Tamzin the screen was showing, posed for a Dermani advert, bracelet and earring accessories for a stupidly priced couture dress. The girl was beautiful, certainly, but it was a lofty beauty implying arrogance.

“So what's her little sister doing at her fiancé's house in the middle of the night?”

“One guess,” Alison said dryly. “I always used to be jealous of my sister's boyfriends. And Byrne was no saint. I didn't load the real gutter-press reports for you, but they say he got fired from Marina Days because he couldn't leave the girls alone.”

Amanda scrolled down the file to Claire. The girl was eighteen, a first-year medical student at DeMontfort University. Still living at home with her mother. The university fees were paid by her father as part of a child-maintenance agreement. He lived in Australia. Amanda skipped to the mother: Margina Sullivan.

Pre-judgment went against the nature of Amanda's training, but Margina's record made it difficult to avoid. She had three children, each with a different father each of whom was wealthy enough to support their offspring with independent schooling and an allowance. The Inland Revenue had no employment record for Margina Sullivan. Her tax returns (always filed late) listed a couple of small trust funds as her income source. She owned the bungalow in Uppingham where she lived along with Claire, Tamzin, and Daniel, her nine-year-old son; but her credit rating was dismal.

By the time they arrived at the address, an image of Margina had swollen into Amanda's mind, hardening like concrete: aging brittle harridan.

The Sullivan bungalow was just beyond the center of town, in the middle of a pleasant estate dominated by old evergreen pines which had survived the climate change. The wood and brick structure itself was well-maintained, with glossy paintwork and a roof of new solar panels, but the garden clearly hadn't seen any attention for years. Two cars were parked outside: a BMW so old it probably had a combustion engine, with flat tires and bleached paintwork hosting blooms of moss; next to it was a smart little scarlet and black Ingalo, a modern giga-conductor powered runabout that was proving popular as a first car for wealthy young trendies.

Margina Sullivan opened the door. Amanda assumed they had caught her going out; she was wearing some extravagant dress complemented by a white shawl cardigan. Heavy makeup labored to re-create the youthfulness of what was undeniably an attractive face. Not a single bottle-red hair was out of alignment from her iron-hard curled beret style. She put a hand theatrically on her chest when shown Amanda's police ID card and oohed breathlessly. The phoney concern changed to shock and barely concealed anger when Amanda regretfully informed her of Byrne Tyler's death. Margina hurried over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large Scotch.

“How am I going to tell Tamzin?” she gulped. Another shot of whiskey was poured. “God in heaven, what are we going to do? Starlight was paying for a bloody wedding exclusive, not a funeral.”

A curious way of expressing grief, Amanda thought. She kept quiet, looking around the lounge. It was chintzy, with lavender cloths covering every table and sideboard, tassels dangling from their overhanging edges. Figurines from the kind of adverts found in the most downmarket weekend datatext channels stood on every surface. Tall, high-definition pictures of Tamzin looked down serenely from each wall, campaigns for a dozen different fashion products. Amanda would have liked to be dismissive, but the girl really was very beautiful. Healthy vitality was obviously The Look right now.

Claire and Daniel came in, wanting to know what was happening. Amanda studied the younger girl as her perturbed mother explained. Claire didn't have anything like her elder sister's poise, nor was there much resemblance—which was understandable enough. She had sandy hair rather than lush raven; her narrow face had a thin mouth instead of wide full lips; and her figure was a great deal fuller than that of the lean athlete. Nor was there any of Tamzin's ice-queen polish, just a mild sulkiness.

Daniel was different again…wide-eyed and cute, with a basin-cut mop of chestnut hair. Like every nine-year-old, he could not stay still. Even when told of Tyler's death he clung to his sister and shivered restlessly. The affection between the siblings was touching. It was Claire who soothed and comforted him rather than his mother. Amanda's attitude hardened still further when Margina went for yet another shot of whiskey.

“Where is Tamzin at the moment?” Alison asked.

“Paris,” Margina sniffed. “She has a runway assignment tonight. I must call Colin at Hothouse—they're her agents; he can arrange for her to be flown home. We'll release a statement on the tragedy from here.”

“A statement?”

“To the media,” Margina said irritably. “Hothouse will see to it.”

“Perhaps you should call the Hothouse people now,” Amanda said. “In the meantime I have some questions which I need to ask Claire.”

Margina gave her a puzzled glance. “What questions?”

Amanda steeled herself. This wasn't going to be pleasant. She could do the preliminary interview with the girl here or at the station. Either way, Margina, and after that Tamzin, would find out why. I'm not a social worker, she told herself. “We think Claire might have been the last person to see Mr. Tyler alive.”

“Impossible,” Margina insisted. “You said he died at home.” She rounded on Claire. “What does she mean?”

The girl hung her head sullenly. “I saw Byrne on Wednesday evening.”

“Why?”

“Because he was screwing me,” Claire suddenly yelled. “All right? He'd been screwing me for months. How the hell do you think I bought my car? From the money my loving father gives me?” She burst into tears. Daniel hugged her tighter, and she gripped at him in reflex.

Margina's mouth opened. She stood absolutely still, staring at her daughter in disbelief. “You're lying. You little bitch. You're lying!”

“I am not!” Claire shouted back.

Amanda stepped between them, holding her hands up. “That's enough. Claire, you're going to have to come to the station with us.”

The girl nodded.

“You could have ruined everything,” Margina cried shrilly. “Everything! You stupid stupid bitch. You've got a whole university full of men to sleep around with. What the hell were you thinking of?”

“Don't you ever care about anyone but yourself? Ever? You don't know anything, you're just an ignorant old fraud.”

“I said: enough,” Amanda told them. “Mrs. Sullivan, we can arrange for a social case officer to counsel you and Tamzin if you would like.”

Margina was still glaring at Claire, her breathing irregular. “Don't be absurd,” she said contemptuously. “I'm not having a failed psychology graduate asking me impertinent questions as if I were some feeble-brained dole dependant. Colin will take care of everything we require.”

“As you wish,” Amanda said calmly.

Amanda decided to question the girl in her office rather than the station interview room. It was marginally less inhospitable. She got her a cup of tea, and even managed to find some biscuits in one of the desk drawers.

Claire didn't pay any attention, she sat with her head in her hands.

“Did you love him?” Amanda asked tenderly.

“Ha! Is that what you think?”

“I don't know. I'm asking.”

“Of course I didn't love him.” Her head came up abruptly, a worried expression on her face. “But I didn't kill him.”

“Okay. So tell me why you were having a relationship with him?”

“It wasn't a relationship. He seduced me. I suppose. We'd gone to see Tamzin at a fashion show in Peterborough this Easter. He fixed it somehow that I was driven back home in his limo. It was just him and me. I'd had a lot to drink.”

“Did he rape you?”

Claire gave a helpless grimace. “No. He was interested in me. That's never…Tamzin was always the one. She's always been the one. It's like she was born with two people's luck. Everything happens for her. She's so pretty and glamorous. Byrne Tyler was her boyfriend. I mean, Byrne. I used to watch him on Marina Days.”

“So you were flattered, and it was exciting.”

“Suppose so.”

“And afterward? Then what happened?”

“He said he wanted to keep seeing me.”

“You mean to have sex?”

Claire blushed and hung her head. “Yes.”

“So you went back? Voluntarily?”

“Mum's really frightened, you know? You wouldn't be able to tell, not with her. She doesn't let anyone see. But she is. We don't have any money; mum's in debt to dozens of shops, just for food half the time. We can't get credit anywhere locally anymore—no bank will issue her with a card. Tamzin…well she can look after all of us. Since she met Byrne her career is really taking off. She earns tons of money.”

“So what did Byrne Tyler tell you?”

“He said to just keep things going the way they were. That he'd never tell Tamzin as long as he was happy, and everything would stay the same.”

“And he bought you the car?”

“Yes. It was so I could drive out to Bisbrooke whenever he wanted me. He used to call me in the evenings, when Tamzin was away on an assignment. I'd tell mum I had late study at DeMontfort. It's not like she'd know any different.”

“And you were there on Wednesday evening?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“When did you arrive?”

“About nine o'clock.”

“And you left when?”

“Just after eleven.”

“And Byrne Tyler was alive when you left?”

“Yes! I swear it. I left him in bed. I got dressed and went home.”

“Was there anyone else there with you?”

“No. Just me.”

“Claire, do you remember if it was cold in the apartment that night?”

“No. It never is. Byrne didn't like sheets or duvets on the bed. He always kept the bedroom warm enough so he didn't have to use them.”

Amanda noted that in her cybofax. “Interesting. I need to know about the bedroom, I'm afraid. Did you have champagne up there that night?”

“Yes.”

“We only found one glass. Isn't that a bit odd?”

“Oh.” Claire looked hard at the top of the desk. “I have the glass. Byrne liked to…well, he poured some on me.”

“I see. Did he say if he was meeting anyone else after you left?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Had he met anyone before you arrived?”

“I don't know. He never said.”

Amanda sighed, resisting the impulse to reach out and grip the girl's shoulder in reassurance. “Sounds like you've had a pretty rough few months.”

“It wasn't that…I know it all sounds awful. He really liked me, though. You must think I'm some dreadful cheap tart.”

“I don't think that at all. But what I'd like to do is refer you to a counsellor. I think you could do with someone to talk to right now.”

“Maybe. Do I have to?”

“No. But I'd like you to think about it.”

“I will. Can I go now?”

“Just about finished. I'll need a DNA sample from you to eliminate any traces we find at the apartment. After that you're free to go.”

“Why do you need that?”

“Because this is now a murder investigation.”

“Why is it murder?” Vernon asked.

“Claire claims the air-conditioning was operating normally when she left.”

“Tyler could have changed it.”

“We've been over this. That temperature isn't one you can live in. The only reason to change it is to fudge the time of the murder. And the controls were wiped. The murderer did that.”

“All right, damnit. I've done some background datawork for you. He was insured by his management agenda and we now have reasonable doubt. I'll squirt the appropriate information off to them. We should get a response fairly quickly.”

“Thank you. I'd like a scene-of-crime team to look at the apartment, and a full autopsy.”

“I can give you that now.”

“Great. I'll also need full access to all of Tyler's financial and personal data. Alison can start running it through some analysis programs.”

“Okay, I'll have a magistrate sign the order this evening.” Vernon fixed her with a thoughtful stare. “Did the girl do it?”

“She certainly had the motive. She was there around the time it happened. Unless we can put someone else at the scene, she's the obvious choice.” She caught his troubled expression. “What?”

“I don't get it. She was smart enough to lower the temperature, so she must have realized everyone would find out she was sleeping with Tyler. Why not simply say he slipped, that it was an accident?”

“Guilt. Plain and simple. Trying to cover her tracks. You can see it in the way she talks. She's cautious about every word that comes out of her mouth, as if she'll give herself away just by speaking.”

“Okay, Amanda, if you say so.”

The next morning Amanda caught the Tyler story on Globecast's breakfast news. She was smoking an extremely illicit cigarette, trying to calm herself for the day to come. Tyler didn't rate much time: archive footage of him arriving at some glitzy party with Tamzin on his arm; the fact they were engaged, and she was believed to be flying home to be with her family; and a mention that the police investigation was ongoing, hinting that officers considered the circumstances unusual.

How do they find out so quickly? she wondered.

Amanda checked in at the station first, mainly to make sure there were no problems with Alison's analysis. The probationary detective gave her a grumpy look from behind her desk. Four terminal cubes were full of what looked like Inland Revenue datawork as she used her court access order to pull in details from his accountant, agent, solicitor and banks. Apparently Byrne Tyler's financial affairs were complex to the point of obscurity, not helped by the way showbusiness used accounting methods unknown to the rest of the human race. Amanda told her to concentrate on finding out if he had any large debts, and to confirm that he had bought the Ingalo for Claire.

With that part of the investigation on line she was ready to drive up to the apartment and supervise forensic's sweep. Vernon brought Mike Wilson to see her before she could get away. Wilson was from Crescent Insurance, who provided cover for Tyler. A real smoothy, she thought as they were introduced. Late thirties, in a smart blue-gray business suit at least two levels above a detective's price range, ginger hair neatly trimmed, a body he had kept in condition without being an obvious gym-rat. She didn't think he'd had any cosmetic alteration, his cheeks were slightly too puffy; but he certainly used too much aftershave.

“How much coverage did Tyler have?” she asked.

“His agency had taken out a full investigatory package,” Mike Wilson said. “Whatever it takes to get the culprit into court and secure a conviction.”

“Sounds good to me. Just give us your credit account details, we'll invoice you.”

Wilson's smile was tolerant. “I'm afraid it's not that simple. We like to see first hand what our money is being spent on.”

She gave Vernon a tight you're-kidding-me look. He smiled in retaliation. “Mike Wilson will be assigned to your team for the duration of the investigation.”

“As what?”

“I have worked on a number of police cases,” Wilson said. “I appreciate you don't want what you regard as outside interference—”

“Bloody right I don't.”

“—however, the facts are that I can offer immediate access to considerable specialist resources such as forensic labs and database mining, which the police have to outsource anyway. And I'm certainly happy to finance any reasonable police deployment, like the scene of crime search. That goes without question.”

“How active do you see your helpful role?”

“I only offer advice when I'm asked for it. It's your investigation, Detective.”

Her terminal bleeped for attention. Mike Wilson and Vernon Langley watched expectantly. Without making too big a deal of it, Amanda sat behind her desk and pulled the call through. It was Denzil.

“I have good news and good news,” he said. “From your point of view anyway, if not Byrne Tyler's.”

“What did you find?”

“Narcotic toxicology was minimal, except for a very recent infusion of Laynon. Our boy was improving his bedtime performance that night, but nothing more. But there were plenty of residual traces. He's a regular and longtime user of several proscribed drugs. However he didn't have enough of anything in his bloodstream to impede locomotion or cause disorientation at the time he died.”

“The champagne?”

“Minimal alcohol level, he couldn't have drunk more than half a glass.”

“Thanks, Denzil. What else?”

“Dried saliva trails on his skin. And small scrapings of skin under two fingernails.”

“They must be from Claire.” She glanced up at Mike Wilson, raising an eyebrow. He gave a small bow. “Run a DNA comparison for me, Denzil.”

“Yeah, I heard we got money.” His image vanished from the screen.

Wilson gave Vernon a meaningful look. “If it is the sister, the tabloid channels are going to have a feeding frenzy.”

Amanda made an effort at conversation on the drive up to Bisbrooke. It wasn't that Wilson was unlikable; but her instinct was that he had no place on the investigation. Of course, intellectually, she appreciated his presence was due to social injustice rather than politics. External funding was a factor she would have to accept, especially in the future.

With the body gone and the air-conditioning back to normal, the apartment had lost its cheerless quality. Two scene-of-crime officers were moving methodically through the ground floor, examining every surface with a variety of sensor wands. Rex was out in the courtyard, taking statements from the neighbors.

“What do you need to move for a prosecution?” Mike Wilson asked as they took a look at the cast-iron stairs.

“Basically, a lack of any other suspects. I expect the prosecution service will accept she changed the air-conditioning. She is a medical student, after all.”

“So you'll interview his friends to see if anyone threatened him?”

“Friends, his agency, people he worked with. The usual. I'd love to try and track down his supplier, as well. But that would really cost you—they don't exactly rush out of the woodwork at times like these.”

He gave a small grin. “I know.”

“Previous case?”

“Crescent insures a lot of celebrity types. Having dealt with them before, I can see why we set the premiums so high.”

“Really?” Amanda was wondering if he was going to let any gossip loose when her cybofax bleeped. Denzil's face appeared on the screen with an indecently malicious expression. “What?” she asked cautiously.

“The saliva is Claire's. The skin under the fingertips is not.”

“Oh bugger,” she groaned. Even so, some part of her was glad Claire had possibly been cleared. Although she was still convinced the girl was hiding something. “Run a match through the central criminal records at the Home Office.” She didn't even consult Mike Wilson with that one.

“Already running,” Denzil said. “Plot getting thicker, huh?”

“Yeah, right.” She ended the call.

Wilson was looking up at the top of the stairs. “So what do you think? Skin scrape from whoever pushed him.”

“Looks that way. One last desperate grasp as he started to fall.” She walked over to the red outline of the body on the terra-cotta tiles, and turned a full circle. “So what else have we got? No sign yet of a forced entry, which implies either the security 'ware let them through or it was a professional hit and they could burn through the system without a trace.”

“Pushing someone off the top of the stairs isn't a widely used assassination method. It's heat-of-the-moment. Which fits.”

“Fits what?”

“Someone turned up just after Claire left. A friend, or someone he knew. He let them in. There was an argument. It would also explain the air-conditioning. If it was a professional hit, then whoever did that wouldn't need to confuse the time of death, it wouldn't matter to them. For some reason, our murderer still cares about messing with the time.”

“Still doesn't fit. If it was a friend, then the security 'ware would have an admissions record. There was nobody.”

“We'd better have it checked very thoroughly, then. Get into the base management program and see if there's any sign of tampering.”

Amanda nodded. “You have somebody who can do that?”

“Oh yes.”

“While they're at it, make sure they enhance the surveillance picture of the Ingalo when it left, I'd like to confirm no one was inside along with Claire.”

“Fair enough. What else do you need?”

She gestured out of the window wall. “Unless it was a real professional who yomped in over the fields, the only way to get here is to drive through the village. And believe me, that's not so easy. Bisbrooke is small, and confusing. The villagers would know all about strange cars. I want a door-to-door enquiry asking if any of them saw anything that night, any cars they didn't recognize, as well as full interviews with the neighboring apartments.”

“That's a lot of labor-intensive groundwork. Could we just wait and see if the DNA register comes up with anything first?”

“Okay. We need the other angle anyway. This will give us some time.”

“Other angle?”

“The motive, Mike. Personal, or financial, or professional jealousy, what-ever…We need to start the good old-fashioned process of elimination. So, you get your expert here to examine the security 'ware, and I'll get back to the station and give Alison a hand with Tyler's finances.”

It was late afternoon when Alison slapped a hand down on her terminal keyboard with a disgusted sigh, canceling a search program. “He doesn't have bloody finances, you've got to have money for that. All Tyler has are debts.”

Which wasn't strictly true. Amanda glanced at Tyler's bank statement again. To think, she always worried about her monthly salary payment arriving in time to satisfy her standing orders and credit-card bill. Some people obviously operated on a higher plane. Although he owed close to quarter of a million New Sterling, the banks just kept extending his credit limit. Why he didn't pay it off she couldn't understand. His cashflow was more than adequate. Of course, neither she nor Alison could track down where half of the money actually came from, and in most cases where it went. One account at a bank in Peterborough was used just for withdrawing large sums of hard cash.

Amanda looked over at Mike Wilson who was studying some of the details himself. “I think we might justifiably request a qualified accountant at this point.”

He ran a hand back through his hair, looking at a twisting column of numbers in one of the cubes with a perplexed expression. “I think you might be right.”

Denzil came in and grinned at the blatant despondency in the room. “Having fun?”

“Always,” Alison said sweetly.

“I have a positive result.”

Amanda sat up fast. “What?”

“The skin scrape is definitely nobody we know of. No record of that DNA in the Home Office memory core. I even squirted the problem over to Interpol. They don't have it either. And before you ask, neither does the FBI.” He gave Wilson an affable smile. “You'll get the bill tomorrow.”

“I live for it.”

“You want me to look elsewhere? Most countries will cooperate.”

“I think we'll have to,” Amanda said. “After all, that DNA is our murderer. Mike?”

“I agree. Although, I'd like to suggest widening the search parameters.”

“How?”

“Organizations such as Interpol and the FBI simply store the DNA of known criminals. If it were a professional hit, I'd say search every police memory core on the planet. However, we favor the theory that this was a heat-of-the-moment killing, do we not?”

“I can go with that,” she said.

“Then our murderer is unlikely to be listed.”

“It was always a long shot, but what else can we do?” She pointed at the cubes full of financial datawork. “If we can find a motive, we can track the murderer that way.”

“Crescent has a DNA-characteristics assembly program. I suggest we use that.”

Denzil whistled quietly. “I'm impressed.”

“I might be,” Amanda said. “If I knew what you were talking about.”

“The genes which make us what we are, are spaced out along the genome, the map of our DNA,” Mike Wilson said. “Now that we know which site designates which protein or characteristic, like hair color or shape of the ear, it's possible to examine the genes which contribute to the facial features and see what that face will look like.”

“You mean you can give me a picture of this person?” Amanda asked.

“Essentially, yes. We can then ask Tyler's friends and acquaintances if they recognize him…or her.” He waved a hand at the busy terminal cubes. “Got to be easier than this, quicker, too. Crescent can also run standard comparison programs with the visual images stored in our data cores, and with the security departments of all the other companies we have reciprocal arrangements with. I think you'll find they're considerably more extensive than the criminal records held by governments. For a start, between us, the insurance companies have copies of every driving license issued in Europe. And we already decided the murderer drove to Bisbrooke.”

Amanda studied him. This was suddenly too easy. Something was wrong, and she couldn't define it…apart from an intuitive distrust she had for the corporate machinator. And yet, he was helping. Solving the crime, in all probability. “How long will it take?”

“If we courier a sample of the DNA over to Crescent's lab in Oxford this evening, the program can crunch the genome overnight. We can have the picture by morning.”

“Okay. Do it.”

Amanda hated working Sundays. No way around it this week, though. And maybe, just maybe, she might get overtime, courtesy of Crescent.

When she arrived at the station there was an unusually large crowd of people in the main CID office for the time and day, uniform division as well as detectives. Alison gave Amanda a wry smile as she came in.

“The scene-of-crime team found something interesting,” she said in a low voice, suggesting conspiracy. “No shortage of volunteers to go over this lot for us.”

“What?” Amanda asked. She edged through the group to look at the flatscreen they were all absorbed with. It was a split-screen image, three viewpoints of the main bedroom in Byrne Tyler's apartment. Tyler himself was on the bed with a girl, their naked bodies writhing in animal passion.

Alison held up a carton full of memox crystals. “There's a lot of them. Over sixty.”

“Okay.” Amanda walked over to the AV player and switched it off. “That's enough. This is supposed to be a bloody police station, not a porno shop.”

They moaned, one or two jeered, but nobody actually voiced a complaint. The group broke up, filing out of the CID office with sheepish grins and locker room chuckles.

“They found three cameras in there yesterday,” Alison said. “Quite a professional recording setup. Looks like Tyler was something of an egotistical voyeur.”

“Was he recording Wednesday night?” Amanda asked sharply. At least that explained why he didn't have a top sheet on his bed, she thought.

“No. Or at least, there was no memox of it. The AV recorder the cameras are rigged to was empty.”

“Pity.”

Alison rattled the carton. “Plenty more suspects: all the husbands and boyfriends.”

The little black cylinders rolled about. Ten-hour capacity each. Amanda found herself doing mental arithmetic. Assuming they were even half-full, Tyler had been a very busy boy. Popular, too. “Is there an index?”

“Yes.” Alison flourished a ziplock bag containing several sheets of paper. “In ink no less—I guess he didn't want to risk this list getting burned open by a hotrod. Mostly just first names, but he got some surnames as well; and they've all got dates. They go back over two years. There's quite a few personalities I recognize.”

“Okay, scan the list in to your terminal and run the names through a search program. Then see if a visual-characteristics recognition program can identify the girls we don't have full names for. I want to know where all of them live, if they're married or have long-term partners, parents of the younger ones, that kind of thing. Oh, and check to see if the crystals are there.”

Mike Wilson walked in past the last of the uniform division. His expression was bleak. “What did I miss?” he inquired.

“Tyler liked to record himself in bed,” Alison said. “We found the crystals.”

“Oh, shit. We'd better keep that quiet.”

Amanda frowned. Not quite the response she expected. “I was planning on it,” she said. “How did the DNA characteristics assembly go?”

He flipped open a shiny chrome Event Horizon executive cybofax and gave it an instruction. A young man's face appeared, light brown hair, greenish eyes, a thin nose, broad mouth. There was a small digital read-out in the corner of the screen saying: 18 YEARS. It started to wind forward. The man began to change, aging. Wrinkles appeared, the cheeks and neck thickened; the hairline receded, gray streaks appeared. The display finished at eighty years, showing a wizened face with shrunken cheeks plagued by liver spots, and wisps of silver-white hair.

“Denzil was right,” Amanda said. “That's impressive. Just how accurate is it?”

“Perfectly accurate.”

“You sound unhappy.”

“There was no positive match.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, we got hundreds of people who share eighty-five to ninety percent similarity. We just captured an image from every five years of his life and the computer ran a standard visual comparison reference program for each of them. In total we have access to pictures of two hundred twenty-five-million Caucasian males. Can you believe it? Nothing over ninety percent.”

Amanda couldn't work out if she was disappointed or not. Mike Wilson had sounded so sure this was the solution, and now for all the astonishing technology and corporate data cores they had to revert to humble police work. “Give us the top twenty off your list, and we'll start to work through them, check if they knew Tyler, alibis, the usual. English residents to start with, please.”

“Okay,” he acknowledged the request with a subdued nod. “Who the hell did this? The only way this murderer could elude our programs is with major plastic surgery, changing his appearance.”

“Someone in showbusiness, then,” Alison said brightly.

“The percentage is a lot higher among celebrities than the rest of the population. They're always improving their appearance.”

“Could be.” Uncertainty was a strong presence in his voice.

“Alison, that can be your priority,” Amanda said. “We'll turn Tyler's finances over to a professional accountant. That'll free us to interview friends and colleagues, see if any of them recognize this picture.” Her finger tapped the cybofax screen. “I'll start with the Sullivans. You concentrate on his fellow celebrities.”

Amanda was just going out the station door when she caught sight of a silhouette in the reception area, a man talking to the desk sergeant. “Greg?”

Greg Mandel turned round. His eyes narrowed for a second, then he grinned. “Amanda Patterson, right? Detective sergeant?”

She shook the hand he offered. “Detective, now.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. So what are you doing here?”

“Checking on a vehicle accident. One of Eleanor's family was hurt.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Any luck?”

“None at all.”

“Yeah, well, you know how the police force works. Traffic doesn't get the highest priority these days. Want me to pull any strings?”

“No. That's okay, thanks. I guess CID's pretty busy with the Tyler case. I saw it on the news.”

“Yeah. It's my case, too.” She glanced from Greg back to Mike Wilson who was standing waiting politely. Asking never hurt, she thought, and she'd had a reasonable relationship with Greg during an earlier case when he'd been appointed as a special adviser to Oakham's CID. “Look, Greg, I realize this probably isn't the best time to ask you, but the Tyler case is really a ball-breaker for me. We're hitting a lot of stone walls.”

“Uh huh.” Greg's expression became reluctant, trying to work out how to extricate himself.

“Just sit in on one interview, Greg, that's all I need. I've got a suspect I'm not sure about. How about it? You can cut straight through all the usual crap and tell me if she's on the level. We can even pay you a fee. Mike here is from Crescent Insurance, they're picking up the tab for Tyler.”

Greg and Mike eyed each other suspiciously.

“What exactly is your field?” Mike asked.

“I have a gland,” Greg said mildly.

Amanda enjoyed the discomfort leaking over Mike Wilson's face. She'd endured the same feeling the first time she met Greg; every guilty memory rushing to the front of her mind.

“I thought we'd cleared Claire?” Mike Wilson protested.

“She was at the apartment very close to the time,” Amanda said. “And I know she's holding something back. That's why I need a psychic, to see where I'm going wrong. If I knew the right questions to ask her I bet we could take some big steps forward.”

Mike Wilson clearly wanted to object; just didn't have the nerve.

“Detective's intuition, huh?” Greg asked.

“Must be catching,” she told him spryly.

He consulted his watch. “Okay. I can give you an hour. But I'll have to call Eleanor first, let her know where I am.”

She couldn't resist it. “Under the thumb, Greg—you?”

His smile was bright and proud. “Certainly am, I have two women in my life now. Christine is six months old.”

“Oh, I didn't know. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Amanda and Mike Wilson took it in turns to brief Greg on the case as they drove out to Uppingham. Just before they got to the roundabout with the A47 at Uppingham, Greg said: “I'd like to take a look at the apartment first.”

“Why is that necessary?” Wilson asked.

“It's best if I can get a feel for the event,” Greg said. “Sometimes my intuition can be quite strong. It might help with the interview.”

They pulled up in Church Vista's courtyard. Greg got out and looked round, head tilted back slightly as if he was sniffing at the air. Wilson watched him, but didn't comment. There was a police seal on the door to apartment three, which Amanda's card opened.

Greg went over to the red outline at the foot of the stairs. “What was the result from the security 'ware?”

“As far as we can tell it's clean,” Mike Wilson said. “If it was tampered with, then whoever did it covered their tracks perfectly.”

“Hmm.” Greg nodded and started to walk round, glancing at the coffee table with its spread of glossy art books.

“We've collected statements from all the neighbors now,” Amanda said. “None of them heard or saw any other car arriving or departing that night. It was only Claire and the Ingalo. And we've received the enhanced images from the security camera by the gates. She was the only person in it coming in and out.”

“Well, I can appreciate your problem,” Greg said. He was walking along the wall, examining the pictures one at a time. “Circumstances make it look like a professional hit, but pushing Tyler down the stairs is strictly a chance killing.”

“Tell me,” Amanda muttered. “We know there was someone else here, we even know what they look like. But everything else we've got says it's Claire.”

“Can I see the image you assembled from the genome data?”

Mike Wilson flipped open his cybofax and showed Greg the image while it ran through its eighteen-to-eighty lifecycle.

“Doesn't ring any psychic bells,” Greg said. He stopped beside the smallest painting on the wall, a picture of a hill with a strange object in the air above it. “This is a bit out of place, isn't it?” The pictures on either side were colored chalk sketches of ballerinas clad only in tutus.

“Is that relevant?” Wilson asked as he slipped the cybofax back in his jacket pocket. He was beginning to sound more positive, overcoming his apprehension of the gland and its reputation.

“Probably not,” Greg admitted. He led them up the stairs into the bedroom. The crime scene team had tagged the three cameras that were discreetly hidden within elaborate picture frames, the units no bigger than a coat button. Slender fiber-optic threads buried in the plaster linked them to an AV recorder deck in a chest of drawers.

“And you say there's no sign of a struggle?” Greg asked.

“No. The only thing messed up was the bed.”

“Right.” He stood in the door, looking at the top of the stairs. “If it was a professional hit, then the murderer could have waited until just after Claire had left, then thrown Tyler down the stairs. That would disguise the fact it was a hit, which would stop us looking for anyone else with a motive. Was Tyler alive when he fell?”

“The autopsy says yes. The impact snapped his neck, he was killed instantly.”

“What about bruising or marks? If he was alive when he was forced to the stairs he would have put up some kind of struggle.”

“No bruising,” Amanda said.

“That doesn't necessarily follow,” Mike Wilson said. “He'd only struggle if he realized what was happening. If the murderer made out he was a burglar and made him walk to the stairs with a gun to his head he wouldn't have fought back.”

Greg pulled a face, looking from the bed to the stairs. “Yeah, this is all possible, but very tenuous. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.” He went over to the chest of drawers, and bent down to study the AV recorder, fingertips tracing the slender optical threads back into the skirting board. “How old is this place?”

“The apartment was finished two and a half years ago,” Amanda said. “Tyler moved in just over two years ago.”

“So he probably had it wired up then,” Greg said. “How much did the apartment cost him?”

“Five hundred and fifty thousand New Sterling. There's over four hundred thousand outstanding on the mortgage. He was late with several payments.”

“So he doesn't own it. I thought he was rich.”

“By our standards he's loaded. But he had one hell of a lifestyle, and he didn't star in that many action interactives. Strictly C-list when it comes to the celebrity stakes. He's definitely short of hard cash.”

Greg went over to the bed, running a hand along the edge of the mattress. “Did he make any recordings of himself with Claire?”

“I'm not sure,” Amanda said. “Let me check if Alison's loaded the list in yet.” She opened her cybofax and linked in to the station 'ware. “We're in luck, she's just finished it. Let's see…Yes, there's three crystals of Claire.”

“When was the last one dated?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Why the interest?” Mike Wilson asked.

“That's a lot of recording time for one girl,” Greg said. “And Claire doesn't come over here that often, or stay long when she does. That suggests he records every time. So why didn't he record last Wednesday night?”

“He did,” Amanda said instinctively. She could see where he was going with this. “And the murderer took the memox crystal because he was caught by the cameras in here. Which implies that whoever the murderer is, he struck very quickly after Claire left. So close the recorder was still on.”

“No messing,” Greg said.

Tamzin Sullivan had returned home. When Amanda, Greg and Mike Wilson were shown into the bungalow, the bereaved girl was sitting in the lounge. To show her grief at the loss of her future husband she was wearing traditional black in the form of a less traditional micro dress with a deep scoop-top. Colin, from Hothouse, was fussing around with her mother while a seamstress made last minute adjustments to the shoulder straps, a makeup artist was finishing off the girl's face.

It was Claire who had answered the door and ushered them in. As soon as the sisters glanced at each other the atmosphere chilled to a level below that Tyler's apartment had ever reached. Daniel, who was lurking behind the sofa, shrank away from the visitors.

“This is not an appropriate time for you to be here,” Margina said imperiously. “The Starlight crew will be here any minute.”

“I apologize for interrupting you at what is undoubtedly a difficult time,” Amanda said; it was her best official sympathy voice. She marveled she could manage to keep it irony-free. “But I'm afraid we do have some questions for Tamzin, and Claire again. We'll be brief.”

Tamzin glanced at Colin, who gave a small nod.

“I'll help in whatever way I can,” Tamzin said. “I want Byrne's murderer caught. Have you found the piece of scum yet?” Her gaze flicked pointedly to her sister.

“We have a possible suspect.”

Mike Wilson showed her his cybofax, running the image. “Do you recognize this man? We think Byrne knew him.”

Tamzin leaned forward with considerable interest, fabric straining. Amanda saw Wilson's glance slither helplessly down to her cleavage, and prayed hard no one else had seen.

“No. I don't.”

He went onto show the image to Margina, Claire, and even Colin. They all said they had never seen the man before.

“What about threats?” Amanda asked. “Do you know if anyone was being abusive to him recently?”

“No,” Tamzin said. “There was nothing like that. He did have a few crank callers, everyone as famous as us has them; but the agency screened them for him.”

“I'd like a record of them, please,” she told Colin.

“I'll get it squirted over to you,” he promised.

“Thank you. Greg, anything you need to know?”

“The pictures in your fiancé's apartment are interesting,” Greg said. “How long's he been buying them?”

Tamzin blinked, slightly baffled. “Since he moved in, I suppose. Byrne appreciated fine art, music, culture; he wasn't just an action hero, you know. He was friends with a lot of people in the media and arts. Inspiring people. He was even writing a script for a drama that we would star in together. Now that's talent.”

“Yes, I'm sure. The pictures are all original, aren't they?”

“They're Byrne's collection,” Tamzin said in pique. “Of course they're original.”

“I see. Thanks.”

Amanda had somehow expected more; she had seen Greg interview suspects before. When he didn't ask anything else, she said: “I'd like to talk to Claire alone for a moment, please.”

Margina's face tightened in fury; she gave her youngest daughter a warning glare as she stalked out. Tamzin didn't even bother with that; she ignored everyone as she left. It was Colin who was left to take Daniel's hand and lead the lad away.

Claire slumped down petulantly into the sofa. She was wearing an oversize rouge T-shirt and baggy black jeans; cloaking while Tamzin exhibited. Always opposites. “Now what?”

“I really will be brief,” Amanda said. “This is going to be personal, I'm sorry. Did you know about Tyler's obsession with recording events in his bedroom?”

“You've found the memox crystals?” Claire asked in a small voice.

“Yes, we did.”

“I knew you would. Byrne liked me to watch them with him. He enjoyed the ones of him with famous people. There were a lot; actresses and singers, socialites, people like that. I know it was all wrong, but one more bad thing on top of all the rest didn't seem to matter much, not by then.”

“Do you know if he was recording the pair of you that night?”

“I don't know. I knew he did sometimes. I didn't ask. I never wanted to think about stuff like that.”

Amanda took a quick look at Greg, who was watching impassively. There was no clue as to what he saw with his sixth sense. “Thank you, Claire. I know that wasn't easy. I'd just like to go back to that night one more time. Did you see or hear anything unusual there?”

“No. I told you already, there was nothing different.”

“Not even with Byrne—he wasn't acting oddly?”

“No.”

“He didn't do anything that made you angry, or upset?”

“No! Why are you asking this? You think I did it, don't you? I didn't! I didn't! Tamzin thinks I did. Mum hates me. I didn't want any of this. You think I did?” Tears were starting to slide down her cheeks. She wiped at them with the back of a hand, sniffling loudly.

“Okay, Claire, I'm sorry. And you're sure you didn't recognize the man Mike showed you on the cybofax?”

“Yeah, I've never seen him. Who is he?”

“I wish we knew.”

As soon as they all got back into Amanda's car, she turned to Greg. “Well?”

“Claire's telling the truth. She didn't kill him.”

“God damn it! I'm sure she knows something about this.”

“Not that I could sense. She certainly didn't recognize the killer's face, there was nothing odd about the apartment that night, and Byrne was behaving normally. You're going to have to come at it from a different angle.”

“Shit.” She faced forward and gripped the steering wheel. “It has to be someone with a big vicious grudge eating at them.”

“The murderer knew all about the cameras,” Greg said. “Not that Tyler exactly kept it a secret. That makes it more likely to be a jealous boyfriend or husband of some girl that Tyler's had up there.”

“Then why the hell can't we find a match for his face?”

“We'll get him,” Mike Wilson said. “It's just a question of time now.”

“Yeah, right.” She switched on the power cell, and drove off. “Sorry to waste your time, Greg.”

“I don't think you did,” he said cautiously. “There's something not quite right about the crime scene. Don't ask what, it's just a feeling. I just know something's wrong there. It might come to me later; these things normally take time to recognize. Can I give you a call?”

“Please!”

“Thanks. So what's your next step?”

“Work through his friends and acquaintances, and the girls on the crystals. See if any of them recognizes the murderer. Just a hell of a lot of datawork correlation, basically.”

Making sense out of Byrne Tyler's twisted finances was one of Amanda's biggest priorities. She had emphasized that often enough to Vernon and Mike Wilson, both of whom assured her of their total agreement. But there was no accountant waiting for her on Monday morning when she arrived at the station. Mike Wilson was in full apology mode, explaining that the person he had asked to be assigned to the Tyler case was finishing off another audit. “But he'll have completed that by tomorrow at the latest.”

“You mean he'll be here tomorrow?”

“I would assume so.” He handed her a memox crystal. “Peace offering. This came in from Tyler's agency. It's an index of all his professional contacts, people he's worked with over the last eighteen months. They've also got records of his crankier fans.”

Amanda gave the crystal a mistrustful glance; the number of people they were going to have to interview was expanding at an exponential rate. She went into the office to see what progress Alison had made identifying the girls on the memox crystals.

It was considerable. Amanda's eyebrows quirked several times as she ran down the list. For an ex-soap star he had an astonishing sex appeal. How he got to meet so many women in such a short time (during his engagement), and have such a success rate was beyond her. Sure he was boyishly handsome, and kept himself in top physical shape…They started to draw up an interview schedule. Most of it would have to be done over the phone; the preliminary inquiry, anyway.

Vernon called her into his office at 8:40, requesting a full briefing. He was appearing on Radio Rutland soon to explain the case to the public. The police station had been receiving a steady stream of requests from the media, which had doubled since Starlight's interview and pictures of a mourning Tamzin had appeared on the datatext channels last night.

There wasn't much she could give him. They certainly weren't going to announce the failure of the characteristics assembly program to find the murderer. Vernon would just have to stick to confirming the investigation team was “progressing”; that anything else at this time could prejudice the case. He departed for the studio, fidgeting with his tie and collar.

Greg Mandel called her mid-morning, and asked to have a look around the apartment again. She agreed to meet him up there, glad for the break. The women on Alison's list that she'd called so far were uniformly apprehensive when they found out what the enquiry was about, brittle facades hiding real fear of discovery. It was a shabby process, leaving her feeling depressed and less than wholesome.

Greg's big EMC Ranger was waiting outside Church Vista's courtyard gates when she arrived.

“Any clue what you're looking for yet?” she asked when they went inside.

“Sorry, no. I guess I'm just here chasing phantoms.” He tapped a finger on the rim of the glass and wood door leading out to the courtyard. “Logically, we ought to start with the point of entry. Do you have an idea where the murderer came in?”

Amanda flipped her cybofax open, and consulted the report from the scene-of-crime team. “No. According to the security 'ware logs, the main door here was opened at 21:12 hours with a duplicate card issued by Tyler, that's two minutes after the 'ware recorded the Ingalo driving in through the gates—which matches up with Claire's arrival. Then it was opened again at 23:09, from the inside, when she left.”

“What's the security system like?”

“Good quality 'ware, standard application. All the doors and windows are wired up, and the log function records every time they open and close; motion and infrared sensors, voice codeword panic mode with a satellite link to a private watchdog company. I'd be happy here.”

“Sounds foolproof.” Greg walked across the ground floor to the big window wall. Broad patio doors were set into it, to the left of the stairs. “What about this one?”

“It's a manual lock, you can only open it from the inside. There isn't even a catch outside.” Amanda glanced at the log again. “That was closed from 1900 hours onward.” She followed after him as he went into the kitchen, which overlooked the courtyard. All the marble worktops were clean, there was nothing out of place, no food stains, tall glass storage pots of dried pasta unopened, spice jars full; even the line of potted ferns on the windowsill were aesthetic, healthy and well-watered. It was as though the whole place had been transplanted direct from a showroom. The band of windows above the sink had two sections which could open. Both had solid manual-key security bolts. Greg didn't even have to ask. “They haven't been opened for ages,” she told him. “Not since June, actually.”

There was a cloakroom next door; emerald-green ceramic tiles halfway up the walls, cool whitewashed plaster carrying on up to the ceiling. A hand basin at one end, toilet at the other with a small window just above it, four panes of fogged glass. Greg went over and looked at it. The top half of the frame was open a crack, its iron latch on the first notch. When he lifted the catch and pushed it open further the hinges creaked, protesting the movement.

“My cat couldn't get through that,” Amanda said.

“Fat cat,” Greg replied. “What about upstairs?”

Main bedroom, the bathroom, and both guest bedrooms all had wide windows equipped with security bolts. Out of the ten which opened, the security bolts were unfastened or loose on three, leaving just the standard latch to deter burglars.

“How would they get up to them?” Amanda asked skeptically when they finished checking the last guest bedroom.

“I've used wallwalker pads in my army days,” Greg said. “And I'm not sure how strong those trellises outside are, maybe they'd act like a ladder.”

“Security log says they stayed closed. You want me to run forensic checks on the external wall?”

“Not particularly. If you have the technical expertise to circumvent window sensors, then you can walk straight in through the main door.”

Amanda's cybofax bleeped. She accepted a call from Mike Wilson. The accountant definitely wouldn't be available before Wednesday—did she want to wait, or get someone else in? One was available for Tuesday, but Wilson hadn't worked with him before. Amanda scratched irritably at her forehead; as Crescent was paying, she wanted results quickly, and, to her, one accountant was no different from any other. She said to get one in for Tuesday morning, first thing. It didn't matter who.

“No progress on finding a match for the murderer's face,” Mike Wilson said. “And you won't believe how many of Tyler's showbiz pals have had discreet trips to the surgeon. It doesn't help our visual comparison programs.”

She finished the call and went off to find Greg. He was downstairs again, crouching over the red body outline. “I've been thinking about motive,” he said. “All we've come up with so far is jealously.”

“The accountant's in tomorrow—maybe we'll find a big debtor.”

“Could be, except the kind of debt that drives someone to kill isn't normally one you'll find on the books. And killing someone means you never get paid.”

She glanced around at the paintings. Tyler had spent a lot of money on them, no matter how questionable his taste. “You think they stole something?”

“We know it had to be a professional who broke in here. It could have been someone trying to reclaim a debt the hard way. Maybe the death was an accident after all. What we have is a burglar who hadn't done enough research on his target to know Claire was making nighttime visits. I mean, they certainly kept it quiet enough. Tyler was awake when he wasn't supposed to be.”

“Could be,” she said.

“Crescent Insurance must have a list of his paintings; it's simple enough to check they're all here.”

“Okay. We'll try that.”

“Sorry I can't come up with anything more concrete.” He made his way out, stopping to take one last look at the small odd painting. Frowning. Then left with a rueful wave.

Amanda used her cybofax to connect directly into Crescent's memory core, and requested Tyler's home contents file. Greg was wrong. All the insured paintings were there. Amazingly the most expensive one was View of a Hill and Clouds. She paused in front of it, not quite believing what she was seeing was worth 20,000 New Sterling. Art, she thought, just wasn't for people like her.

The accountant did arrive on Tuesday morning. He had brought three customized cybofaxes and a leather wallet full of memox crystals loaded with specialist financial analysis programs. His assiduous preparation, eagerness, and self-confidence did a lot to offset the fact that he looked about eighteen. Amanda assigned Alison to assist him.

Greg turned up at the station just before lunch. “I got your message about the paintings,” he said. His manner was reticent, not like him at all.

“It was worth following up,” she assured him. “I would have got around to doing it anyway.”

“That feeling I had that something was out of kilter. I know what it is now. It's that small oil painting, the funny one with the flying saucer or whatever. I'm sure of it.”

“What's wrong with it?”

“I don't know, but something is.”

“I know it stands out from the others. But it turns out Tyler knew the artist: they went out partying together when McCarthy visited England a few years back. And believe it or not, it's the most expensive piece there.”

“Ah.” Greg began to look a lot more contented. “It's wrong, Amanda.”

“How? It's still there, it wasn't stolen.”

“You asked me in on this, remember?” he said gently. “I didn't think I'd have to convince you of all people about my gland all over again.”

She stared at him for a minute while instinct, common sense, and fear of failure went thrashing about together in her head. In the end she decided he was worth the gamble; she had asked him in because she wanted that unique angle he could provide. Once, she'd heard Eleanor, his wife, call his talent a foresight equal to everyone else's hindsight.

“How do you want to handle it?” she asked in a martyred tone.

He grinned his thanks. “Somebody who knows what they're about needs to take a look at that painting. We should concentrate on the artist, too…get Alison to mine some background on him.”

“Okay.” She called Mike Wilson over.

“An art expert?” he asked cynically.

“Crescent must have a ton of them,” Greg said. “Art fraud is pretty common. Insurance companies face it every day.”

“We have them, yes, but…”

“An expert has told us something is wrong with the painting, and this is my investigation,” she said, not too belligerently, but firmly enough to show him she wasn't going to compromise on this.

He held his hands up. “All right. But you only get three lives, not nine.”

Hugh Snell wasn't exactly the scholarly old man with fraying tweed jacket and half-moon glasses that Amanda was expecting. When he turned up at Church Vista Apartments he was wearing a leather Harley Davidson jacket, a diamond stud through his nose, and five rings in his left ear. His elbow-length Mohican plume was dyed bright violet.

He took one look at Tyler's collection and laughed out loud. “Shit. He spent money on these? What a prat.”

“Aren't they any good?” Amanda asked.

“My talent detector needle is simply quivering…on zero. One hates to speak ill of the dead, my dear, but if all he wanted was erotica, he should have torn the center pages out of a porno mag and framed them instead. This simply reeks of lower middle-class pretension. I know about him, I know nothing of the artists—they say nothing, they do nothing.”

Mike Wilson indicated the McCarthy. “What about this one?”

Hugh Snell made a show of pulling a gold-rimmed monocle from his pocket. He held it daintily to his eye and examined the painting. “Yeah, good forgery.”

Amanda smiled greedily. “Thanks, Greg.”

“No problem.”

“It's insured for twenty thousand,” Wilson said.

“Alas my dear chap, you've been royally shafted.”

“Are you sure?”

Hugh Snell gave him a pitying look. “Please don't flaunt your ignorance in public view, it's frightfully impolite. This isn't even a quality copy. Any halfway decent texture printer can churn out twenty of these per minute for you. Admittedly, it will fool the less well versed, but anyone in the trade would see it immediately.”

“Makes sense,” Amanda said. “The smallest and most valuable item, you could roll it up and carry it out in your pocket.”

“Certainly could,” Greg murmured.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Mandel,” Mike Wilson said.

“Not a problem,” Greg assured him.

“Congratulations,” Wilson said to Amanda. “So it was a burglary which went wrong, then. Which means it was a professional who broke in. That explains why we've been banging our heads against the wall.”

“A pre-planned burglary, too, if he'd brought a forgery with him,” she said. “I bet Tyler would never have noticed it had gone.”

“Which means it was someone who knew Tyler had the McCarthy on his wall, and how much it was worth.”

Amanda went up to the McCarthy; and gave it a happy smile. “I'll get forensics back to take a closer look at it,” she said.