"The man that answers the door is a minder, he'll make trouble if you let him," Gabriel said. "Take him out straight away."

"Right." He rang the bell. Music and laughter wafted over the roof.

Greg saw him coming through the smoked-glass pane set into the grimy hardwood door, an obscure blotch of brown motion, swelling to cloud the whole rectangle.

The door was pulled open.

"Hello, sorry we're late."

The man behind the door was street muscle in a suit; early twenties, tall, stringy, dark hair, broad forehead crinkling into a frown.

Greg stepped forward neatly, one foot on the mat the other coming up, further and further. Fast. It was victory through surprise. A smiling man and a portly spinster eager to party just didn't register as a threat. Not until the carbon-mesh-reinforced toe of Greg's desert boot smashed into his kneecap.

His mouth opened to suck in air, eyes wide with shock. He was toppling forwards, leg giving way, and bending to clutch desperately at his shattered knee.

Greg brought his fist straight up, catching the minder's chin as he was on his way down. The force of the blow snapped his head back, lifting him off his feet, back arching, arms and legs flung wide.

He crashed back on to the shiny blue ceramic tiling, skull making a nasty cracking sound, a thin stream of pea-green vomit sloshing from his slack mouth.

Greg took in the dark hall behind him with a quick glance, espersense wide for alarmed minds. Big tasteless urns holding willowy arrangements of dried pampas grass making the most impression. But the hall was empty. Nobody had witnessed their arrival.

"Jesus, Greg." Gabriel was kneeling beside the prone minder, feeling for a pulse.

Greg opened the cloakroom door. "In here." There was a wicker dog-basket on the floor, jackets were piled high on a washbasin; it smelt of urine and detergent. "Come on!"

Gabriel shot him a filthy look, but took hold of the minder's left arm as Greg grabbed the right. They pulled him across the tiles.

"If he was going to die you'd have told me not to hit so hard."

"You know bloody well it doesn't work like that," Gabriel said. "There are a million ways you could've dealt with him."

"Well, is he going to be all right or not?"

"I don't bloody know, some futures have him dying."

Greg shoved the dog basket out of the way and left the minder with his head propped up against the toilet bowl. Gabriel rolled up one of the jackets and slipped it behind the minder's head. He was still breathing.

"How many futures?" Greg asked.

"Some."

Greg recognised the defensive tone, and relaxed. The minder would survive.

"There's a rear belt-holster," Gabriel said reluctantly.

Greg knelt down and felt underneath the minder. Sure enough, he was carrying a Mulekick, a flattened ellipsoid in grey plastic, small enough to fit snugly into Greg's palm, with a single sensitive circle positioned for the thumb and a metal tip that discharged an electric shock strong enough to stun a victim senseless.

"We'll need it later," Gabriel said cryptically.

Greg dropped it into his jacket pocket and followed her back out into the hall.

The house would've given any halfway competent interior designer nightmares. To Greg it looked as though it'd been decorated by someone watching a home-shopping catalogue channel and picking out all the furniture and fittings which had the brightest colours. There was no attempt to blend styles.

The lounge had two three-piece suites, one upholstered in overstuffed white leather, the other done in a bold lemon and purple zigzag print. A harlequin array of biolum spheres hung from the ceiling on long brass chains, imitating a planetarium's solar system display. Dark African shields hung on the wall, along with spears, tomahawks, broadswords, and longbows. The weapons were interspaced with antique rock-concert posters, mostly from Leicester's De Monfort hall—Bowie, Be Bop Deluxe, Blue Oyster Cult, David Hunter, The Stranglers, one for The Who at Granby Hall in 1974. If they were real, and they looked it, they must've cost a fortune.

The party was in full swing on the other side of the lounge's sliding patio doors. Thirty or so people were clustered around the back garden's baby swimming pool. Led Zeppelin was blasting out of tombstone-sized Samsung speakers.

A petite blonde girl in a lime-green one-piece swimsuit shoved the patio door open. Robert Plant's fearsome vocals slammed into Greg's eardrums. She came in dripping water all over the deep white pile carpet. He caught a whiff of bittersweet air. Quite a few of the partygoers round the pool were puffing away on fat Purple Rain reefers.

"Hi," the blonde said when she saw Greg and Gabriel. "We're out of champagne again."

"Can I help?" Greg asked.

"S'all right, I know where it is." She looked at Gabriel. "You want a suit for the pool?"

"No thank you."

"We'll get something to drink first," Greg said. "Have a rap with Ade. Is he out there?"

"Sure," said the blonde. "Over there by the grill, in the lubes stupid hat. Hey, can you cook?"

"Sure."

"Try and get him to let you do the steaks, OK? He's half pissed already, we're gonna be eating coal if it's left to him."

"You got it. How do you want yours?"

She pulled long wet strands of hair from her face, uncovering a dense constellation of freckles. Hazel eyes sparkled at him. "Juicy," she purred.

"Already done."

She peeked surreptitiously at the people outside. "Catch you later," she promised. There was a corrupting wiggle in her walk as she headed for the kitchen.

"Would you like me to wait?" Gabriel enquired, oozing salaciousness.

"We have to stay in character."

"Nice for some. Let's get this over with."

"How do you want to play it?"

Gabriel stared thoughtfully out at the party. "Sucker him in here, first. Then arm-twist him into taking us to his gear cache. We'll apply the real pressure there."

"Is that here in the house?"

"Yes. In the basement. Quite a set-up. Our Tentimes is an ambitious lad."

They went out through the patio door into heat, noise, and a smell of charring meat. None of the guests paid them any attention, they were all concentrating on the pool.

Somebody had rigged a pole across the water. Two naked girls were sitting astride it, facing each other; one was white with sunburnt shoulders, the second was Indian. They were whacking each other with big orange pillows. The crowd roared its approval as the white girl began to slip. She fell in slow-motion, abandoning the pillow and gripping frantically at the pole, sliding inexorably towards the horizontal. A flurry of blows from the Indian girl speeding her progress, aided and abetted by wild shouts of encouragement from the side of the pool. At the last minute she let go of the pole and grabbed the Indian girl. They both shrieked as they hit the water. The white flowerbloom of spray closed over them sending up a plume which soaked some of the spectators.

Groans and cheers went up. The girls surfaced giggling and spluttering. Furious little knots of partygoers formed, passing money back and forth.

"Jenna next," someone called.

"And Carrie."

"Two to one on Carrie."

"Bollocks, evens."

"I'll take that."

The two new girls began to edge towards each other along the pole.

Ade O'Donal stood on the cracked ochre flagstones at the shallow end of the pool, white chef's hat drooping miserably, a wooden spatula in his hand. According to Royan's data squirt he was twenty-four, but his sandy hair was already in retreat, both cheeks were sinking, becoming gaunt, his skin was pasty white, reddening from too much sun. He wore an oversized azure cotton shirt speckled by sooty oil spots from the barbecue, and his loud fruit-pattern Bermuda shorts told Greg who had chosen the house's furniture.