"What did you want?" Vernon asked suspiciously.

"Several things. Firstly, I'm chasing you up over the search program. You haven't squirted over the results yet."

"What search program?"

"For previous incidents at Launde Abbey."

"But the investigation is over."

Eleanor's hands traced an imaginary bulge over her belly, she grinned broadly.

"It ain't over till the fat lady sings," Greg said cheerfully.

"Hell, Greg, we're busy."

"Did you run the search program?"

"I think so. Hang on." Vernon started typing on a terminal keyboard, his face resentful.

Like old times, Greg thought.

"We ran it; there is no record of any previous police call-out to Launde Abbey. Satisfied?"

Greg closed his eyes, considering options. "How far back do those records go?"

"Four years. The station 'ware was infected with a virus when the PSP fell, the memories were wiped. A lot of stations had the same problem, they were all plugged into the Ministry of Public Order mainframe when the circuit hotrods crashed it. The fallout was pretty severe, they did a lot of damage. And of course the People's Constables weren't exactly sticklers for procedure. There was very little in the way of back-up memories. One of the reasons the New Conservatives formed the Inquisitors is because so many records from that time were lost."

"And you were transferred to Oakham after the PSP fell, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"OK, I want you to go around everyone who was stationed at Oakham during the PSP decade, and ask them if they remember anything about Launde Abbey."

"I see," Vernon said in a voice which was excessively polite.

"Good. I shall be coming into town to interview Beswick again this afternoon. You can tell me what you found then." He referred to his cybofax. "There is also Beswick's blood sample."

"What about it?"

"All my file says is that it doesn't contain any syntho. There are no tabulated results."

"So?"

"Did you run any other drug tests?"

Vernon started his laborious typing again. "There were some traces of alcohol, that's all."

"Call the lab, I want to know if they checked for anything else, and if so what they found. And even if they did check, I want a full-spectrum analysis run again on both the urine and blood samples today. Tell them to look for scopolamine."

"Scopolamine?"

"Yeah."

"Anything else?" The irony hung poised like a scalpel.

"I need to look at Beswick's medical records. If you could have them ready for when I come in, please."

"Is this official, Greg?"

"Very."

"In connection with the Kitchener murder?"

"What else?"

"All right, I'll phone the lab." The image blanked out.

"The first thing he's going to do is phone the Home Office," Eleanor said. "Find out if you're still authorized to shove him around like that."

"Yeah," Greg mumbled. He patted the settee, and she came over.

"Second thoughts?" she asked. She sat with her legs up on the armrest cushions, back resting against his shoulder.

"Not just yet." He put his arm around her. "You do realize we are basing all this on my one tenuous belief that there was some incident in Launde's past. If it does turn out nothing happened, then all we've achieved is to bury Nicholas even further."

"You really can't remember what it was?"

"No. I'm even starting to question if I did remember anything. It seems so fragile. Maybe it's me who's suffering from transient global amnesia."

"Not you, my love."

"Thanks." He tapped out a number on the cybofax, and squirted it at the flatscreen.

"Who are you calling now?"

"Julia. I want to make sure my Home Office authorization isn't withdrawn. And then she can request a search through all the national and international commercial news libraries for me, going back say fifteen years just to be on the safe side. See if we can find out what happened at Launde that way."

Eleanor giggled. "A search through fifteen years' worth of every library's news files?"

"No messing. She ain't broke."

"She will be after that."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Julia knew she shouldn't be feeling so exultant, it wasn't gracious, but to hell with that for one long sweet moment. Things were coming together just dandy. Maybe people were right when they called her a manipulator.

She was sitting at the head of the table in Wilholm's study. It was a wonderfully sunny Monday outside. For once the windows were wide open, letting her hear the sound of querulous birdsong, a muggy breeze stirring the loose ends of her hair. She wore a sleeveless champagne cotton blouse and a short aquamarine skirt, dangling her leather sandals right on the end of her toes.

There were twelve memox AV crystals lying on the glossy tabletop around her terminal, recordings of Jakki Coleman's show going back six months. Event Horizon's media research office had compiled them for her.

Caroline Rothman had delivered them that morning when she brought the usual stack of legal papers which required a signature. She hadn't said anything as she put them down on the table, but she must have known what they contained. Julia guessed the entire headquarters building was chittering with delight over Jakki Coleman's audacity, waiting for the inevitable counterstroke. This time they were going to be disappointed. It was too personal for threats of sanctions and financial blackmail screamed down the phone to the channel editor. This time she was going to be adult and subtle. But in the end there was going to be just as much blood spilt, and it wasn't going to be hers. What better way to start the week?

Glowing with a strong amber hue in the middle of her terminal's cube was Jakki Coleman's bank statement. She could thank Royan for that, his patient tutoring had enabled her to worm her way round Lloyds-Tashoko's guardian programs last night, splitting their memory cores wide open. Of course, it wasn't every hacker who had exclusive access to top-grade Event Horizon lightware crunchers to assist in decrypting financial security algorithms. To each their own…

She hadn't emptied the account, though, that was far too easy. Besides Lloyds-Tashoko would know it was a hotrod burn as soon as Jakki complained, the money would be refunded, another point added way down the decimals on everyone's insurance premium. All she wanted was to look.

The figures burned with cold brilliance. The high-flying finances of a channel superstar laid bare.

Except we're not quite so valuable to the channel after all, are we, Jakki darling? Not if that's all they're paying you.

Beside each transaction was the creditor's code. A standard finance directory search would take care of that. Julia set it up, and watched identities wink into existence alongside the columns. She knew some of them, big-name companies, department stores, travel agencies, hotels; the rest, the unknowns, she plugged into another search program.

It was interesting to see what was there, and even more interesting to see what wasn't. Jakki Coleman didn't buy any clothes, not one single item in the last three years.

Julia clapped her hands in delight, and slotted the first memox AV into the player deck beside her terminal. Jakki Coleman, six months younger, but looking just as antique, smiled out of the flatscreen above the fireplace. She was wearing a black two-piece suit with a bold mauve and green jungle-print blouse.

"For that fuller figure," Julia said to the flatscreen. She studied the style intently—the suit was either a Perain or a Halishan—and loaded a note into a node file, coded JakkiDeath. She moved on to the next show.

The last show the media office had recorded was the previous Friday's. There was Jakki in a black and white classical suit with an oversize side-tie. And herself, in her purple blazer, and her long white skirt, and her straw boater, with her hair pleated into a long rope, walking along a line of fit young men in dark red swimming trunks, the team coach introducing her to each of them in turn. And afterwards, sitting at the side of the pool while the squad went through their training routine for her.