So much anger, Greg thought, and just from one question. Will we ever heal the rift? "Morgan? Did you hear all that?"

"Yes, Greg."

"OK, check the date for that World Bank loan application, please. I'd like some verification."

"Right."

Knebel had cocked his head to one side, listening to Greg's side of the conversation intently. He still had his arms around the woman, cradling her. A ribbon of saliva was leaking from the corner of her mouth, eyelids fluttering erratically.

"Now," Greg said. "Why were you so upset about having to close down the inquiry? I was told Clarissa drowned in the lake after some sort of drinking session. Was it an accident?"

"I'm not sure. At the time I didn't think so. You get an instinct, you know? After you've been on the job long enough you can tell if something's not quite right. And I was a good detective, back then. Before it all… I cared," he said defensively.

"Yeah. Keith Willet told me."

"Keith?" Knebel brightened for an instant. "God, is he still at Oakham? How is he?"

"Just get on with it, Knebel."

"All right." He shot Teddy another twitchy glance, then cleared his throat. "I wasn't happy with the circumstances around Clarissa Wynne's death. The students said they found her floating in the lake first thing in the morning, that she must have gone for a swim sometime in the night. Apparently the students always went swimming there."

"Still do," Greg said.

"Yes? Well, anyway, on the surface it was pretty clear cut. She'd been drinking, she'd infused some syntho. That was the first time we'd ever come across the stuff at Oakham. She must have got into difficulty in the water. Those lakes aren't particularly deep, but you only need five centimetres to drown in."

"So what was wrong about it?"

Knebel sighed. "She hadn't drunk much that evening, a couple of glasses of wine. And the syntho, we couldn't be sure, we didn't know much about it back then, but it looked as though it was infused very close to the time she died. Almost as if she took it and dived straight in. Which I don't believe anybody would do, certainly not a bright girl like that. I was going to have the pathology samples sent to Cambridge for a more detailed examination, then the shut-down order came through."

"Suicide?" Greg suggested.

"Nope. First thing I thought of. We did get to ask the students and Kitchener a few preliminary questions. Clarissa Wynne was one happy girl. She enjoyed being at Launde. Her parents confirmed there were no family problems. In any case, there was some light bruising on the back of her neck." He shrugged limply. "It could have been caused by bumping in to something in the water."

"Or it could have been caused by someone holding her under," Greg concluded.

"Yes. if the attacker had put her in a Nelson lock on the side of the lake, the bruising would have been consistent with her head being forced under the surface. Especially if she was conscious. She was young, strong, apparently she was in the woman's hockey team at university, a sports type, she could have put up quite a struggle. The attacker would have had to use a lot of force."

"Any sign of a struggle?"

"No. The grass around the side of the lake was all beaten down. Like I said, the students used it each day."

A dire chill slithered through the combat leathers to prickle Greg's skin as he thought about Clarissa Wynne's death. She would have struggled, that night eleven years ago, fighting her attacker under the silent, beautiful stars, without any hope of success or help. Terribly alone as her head was shoved under the cold muddy water. She would feel her body weakening, be conscious of the syntho breaking her mind apart. And all the while the red ache in her lungs grew and grew.

No fucking wonder he'd been drawn to the lake. It was a focal node of horror and anguish.

Did her soul haunt it? Was that what I sensed?

But whatever the source of the misery, it still didn't explain how her death tied in with Nicholas Beswick.

"Who did you suspect?" he asked Knebel.

"God, I never had time to find a possible suspect. That Ministry order came through in less than a day."

"Well, start thinking about it now, Knebel. What about Kitchener himself? I mean, he was sleeping with his female students the night he died. Sixty-seven years old. Eleven years ago he would have been even more capable sexually."

"No, I don't think so. He was reasonably fit, but not really what I'd call physically powerful. And if Clarissa was held down, it was done by someone stronger than her."

"One of the other students, then?"

"Yes, possibly."

"Was there anyone else staying at the Abbey that night?"

"No. And Clarissa was still alive when the housekeeper and the maid left, we confirmed that."

"OK, can you remember the names of the other students?"

"I think so. There was five of them. Let's see: Tumber, Donaldson, MacLennan, Spencer—"

"Wait! MacLennan? James MacLennan? Dr James MacLennan?"

"Yes. That was his first name, James. I didn't know he was a doctor."

"Shitfire," Greg whispered.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Julia could barely see the far side of the rooftop landing pad. The fog was pressing in, turning the circle of close-spaced white lights around the perimeter of the pad into a hazy line of phosphorescence. The edge of the Event Horizon headquarters building was lost completely.

She was wearing a light nylon windcheater jacket over her plain amethyst-coloured stretch jersey dress. It was too warm to zip it up, but the fog was almost thick enough to be called a drizzle. Her hair was already hanging limply, sprinkled with a sugar coating of droplets. Rachel stood at her side, suede jacket buttoned up, collar raised around her neck. The rest of the reception party—Eleanor, Gabriel, and Morgan, plus some security people—were huddled together a couple of metres away.

Eleanor's smile was blinking on and off; the outright relief on her face making Julia feel like an intruder just for looking at her.

Thirty seconds, Juliet. Can you hear it?

Not yet, Grandpa, she answered silently.

She saw Morgan raise a palm-size communication set to his face and listen for a moment. "They're coming in," he announced.

Now she heard it, the whine of the turbines, low-frequency hiss of air escaping from the fan nacelles. It grew louder and louder until the dove-grey security division tilt-fan was suddenly there above the landing pad. Landing gear unfolding, small red and green wingtip strobes flashing. Its fuselage was coated in water, shining dully.

In the end she simply couldn't stay away. She didn't approve. She had made that quite clear. But ultimately it was her responsibility. Greg was only on the case because she asked him. There was no way she could go out clubbing in New Eastfield while he was risking his neck on her behalf.

Another night lost to duty.

The tilt-fan's broad low-pressure tyres touched down, hydraulic struts pistoning upwards as they absorbed the weight. The forward hatch hinged out and up, airstairs sliding down. The pilot cut the turbines. Micro-cyclones of steam poured out of the nacelles as the fans wound down.

Greg was first out, his black leather combat jacket open to show a white T-shirt, his hair sweaty, clinging to his forehead. He had a stunshot with a shoulder strap riding at his elbow, 'ware modules clipped round his belt, skull helmet thrown back, photon amp band hanging over one shoulder. He looked so… dangerous.

She watched Eleanor walk over and embrace him, arms going round his waist, a brief kiss, then resting her head on his shoulder. He hugged her tightly. It was far more eloquent than whoops of joy and backslapping.

How she'd love someone to greet her like that. Not to be, though. Although perhaps Robin…