The CID office was on the second floor. Amanda Paterson knocked once on the door, and walked in. Greg followed her into the noise of shrilling phones and murmuring voices. There were six imitation-wood desks inside, three of them occupied by men, detectives in shirt sleeves typing away at their terminal keyboards, one with an old-fashioned phone handset jammed between his shoulder and jaw. They all stared at Greg and Eleanor. Metal filing cabinets were lined up along the wall next to the door, kelpboard boxes piled on top. A big flatscreen covered the rear wall, displaying a large-scale map, with half of Oakham showing as a red and brown crescent along the right-hand side. The air was warm despite two of the windows being open; a single conditioner thrummed loudly.

Detective Inspector Vernon Langley was in his late forties. He was almost a head smaller than Greg, and his dark hair had nearly vanished, leaving a shiny brown pate. He was sitting behind a desk at the head of the room, jacket draped over the back of his chair, mauve tie loosened, buttons on his white shirt straining slightly, looking about seven kilos overweight.

The desk was littered in printouts, folders, thumb-sized cylindrical memox crystals, and sheets of handwritten notes. Langley was typing on an English Electric terminal. The model was a decade out of date, and pretty inferior even when it was new. English Electric had been a nationalized conglomerate formed by the PSP, a shotgun marriage between a dozen disparate 'ware companies. Only government offices used to buy their equipment, everyone else went to black-market spivs for up-to-date foreign gear.

He stood up to greet them, wincing slightly, one hand rubbing the stiffness from his back as he rose. He had obviously been working close to his limit on the Kitchener case: his face was lined, there was a five o'clock shadow on his chin. Greg felt exhausted just looking at him.

"I wasn't informed that there would be two of you," he said as he shook hands with Eleanor.

"I act as Greg's assistant," Eleanor said levelly. "I am also his wife."

Vernon Langley nodded reluctantly as he sat back down again. "All right, I'm certainly not going to make an issue of it. Find yourself a seat, please."

Greg drew up a couple of plain wooden chairs. At a second nod from Vernon, Amanda Paterson left them to go and sit at a desk next to the other three detectives. The four of them put their heads together, talking in low tones.

Greg was tempted to use his gland there and then, but he guessed the only emotion in the room would be resentment. They had all been working hard on an important case, under an immense, and very public, burden to produce quick results, now some civilian glamour-merchant had been brought in over their heads because of political pressure. He knew the feeling of frustration well enough, army brass had worked according to no known principles of logic.

"The Home Office called me at home this morning," Langley said. "Apparently you have been drafted in to act as my special adviser on this case. Officially, that is. Unofficially, it was made fucking clear you are now in charge. Would you mind telling me why that is, Mandel?" The lack of any inflection was far more telling than any bitterness or anger.

"I am ex-Mindstar," Greg said deferentially. "My gland gives me an empathic ability, I know when people are lying. Somebody once described me as a truthfinder."

"A truthfinder? Is that so? I've heard you spent a lot of time in Peterborough after Mindstar was demobbed."

"Yeah."

"They say you killed fifty People's Constables."

"Oh, no."

Langley's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Greg couldn't resist it. "More like eighty,"

The detective grunted. "Had a lot of experience solving murders, have you, Mandel?"

"No. None at all."

"Twenty-three years I've been in the force now. I even stuck it out in the PSP years." He waved a hand airily as Eleanor shifted uncomfortably. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs Mandel, the Inquisitors cleared me of any complicity with the Party. That's why I was posted here from Grantham, a lot of Oakham's officers failed that particular test. Not politically sound, you see. Well, not as far as this government is concerned."

"I wonder if Edward Kitchener cares what political colour the investigating officers are," Eleanor said.

Langley gave her a long look, then sighed in defeat. "You're quite right, of course, Mrs Mandel. Please excuse me. I have spent the last four days and nights trying to find this maniac. And for all my efforts, I have got exactly nowhere. So tempers in this office are likely to be a little frayed this morning. I apologize in advance for any sharp answers you may receive. Nothing personal."

"I didn't know the Home Office had told you I was in charge," Greg said. "As far as I'm concerned, it's still your investigation. I really am just a specialist."

"Sure, thanks," said Langley.

Greg decided to press on. It was obvious there wouldn't be the usual small talk, the getting-to-know-you session. He'd just have to do what he could. "The press reports said Kitchener was butchered, is that true?"

"Yes. If I didn't know better I'd say it was a ritualistic killing. Satan worship, a pagan sacrifice, something like that. It was utter barbarism. His chest was split open, lungs spread out on either side of his head. We have holograms if you want an in situ review."

"Not at the moment," Greg said. "Why would anybody go to that much trouble?"

Langley gestured emptily. "Who knows? I meet some evil bastards in this job. But Kitchener's murderer is beyond me, that kind of mind is in a class of its own. Nobody knows what makes someone like that tick. To be honest, it frightens me, the fact that they can walk around pretending to be human for ninety-nine per cent of the time. I suppose you can spot one straight off?"

"Maybe," Greg said. "If I knew what to look for."

"Whoever he is, he's not entirely original. It was a copy-cat method."

"Copy cat?"

"This spreading the lungs gimmick; Liam Bursken used to do it."

Greg frowned, the name was familiar.

"He was a serial killer, wasn't he?" Eleanor said.

"That's right, he roamed Newark picking people at random off the streets then butchering them. The press called him the Viking. He murdered eleven victims in five months. But that was six years ago. Now he really was psychopathic, a total loon. Newark was like a city under siege until he was caught. People refused to go out after dusk. There were vigilante groups patrolling the streets, fighting with People's Constables. Nasty business."

"Where is he now?" Greg asked.

"HMP Stocken Hall, the Clinical Detention Centre where they keep the really dangerous cases. Locked away in the maximum security wing for the rest of time."

"That's close," Greg murmured. He conjured up a mental map of the area. Stocken Hall was only about fifteen kilometres from Launde Abbey as the crow flies.

"Give me some credit. I did check, Mandel. Bursken was there four nights ago. They won't even take him out of the Centre if he gets ill; the doctors have to visit him."

"There is no such thing as coincidence." Greg smiled apologetically. "OK. It wasn't Bursken. You say you haven't got a suspect yet? Surely you must have some idea."

"None at all." The detective slumped further back into his chair. "Embarrassing for us, really. Considering there are only six possible culprits. A neat solution, somebody we could charge quickly, would have been the best thing that could have happened to this station. Not the town's favourite sons, we are." He flicked a finger at Amanda Paterson. "And daughters, of course. As it is, I can't even go outside to that pack of jackals and say I hope to make an arrest in the near future."

"Who are the six possibles?"