In spite of the closest possible examination of the cuticle, the pathologist was unable to detect any weave or pattern that would reflect the actual structure of the ligature. Exhaustive forensic tests had also failed to identify any prints, marks or stains which might be connected with the perpetrator of these actions.

Two days before Hawksmoor had crossed the Thames in a police launch to Greenwich, and as he came up to the dock he leaned forward over the side and allowed his index finger to trail in the oily water. He walked from the harbour and, catching sight of a church tower, turned down a small alley which seemed to lead in that direction. Almost at once he found himself surrounded by small shops in which there was very little light: they were of an old design, leaning forward over the pavement, and in his confusion he hurried down another lane only to stop short when the stone wall of the church apparently blocked off the end; but this was an illusion since a child then walked across it, singing. And at last Hawksmoor emerged into the street, just in time to see the church rising above him. He calmed himself by reading the gold script painted upon a board by the portico: This church was built on the traditional site of the martyrdom of Alfege. It was rebuilt by…'. His eyes wandered down the elaborate scroll, but such things bored him and he was distracted by a flight of birds returning to the branches of a single tree, each bird distinct against the winter sky.

He walked around the side of the church where a group of police officers waited for him -from the way they stood, self-consciously talking in low voices, Hawksmoor knew that the body was behind them on the grass. He walked over and, in those first moments when he was staring down at it, he wondered how he would look to the strangers who encircled his own corpse; and would the breath have left his body like a mist, or like the air evacuated from a paper bag which a child blows up and then explodes? Then he returned to the others: 'What time was he found?'

'At six o'clock this morning, sir, when it was still dark.'

'Do we know '

'He might have fallen from the tower, sir. But nobody knows.'

Hawksmoor looked up at the spire of St Alfege's and, when he blotted out the sun with his right hand, he noticed the white dome of the Observatory which was half concealed by the dark stone of the church. And he remembered that there was something here which he had heard of many years before, and which he had always wanted to see. Eventually he was able to break free from the others, muttering his excuses, and when he came to the foot of the hill he began to run, bounding over the short grass until he reached the summit.

There was a guard by the iron gate in front of the Observatory and Hawksmoor stopped in front of him, out of breath. 'Where,' he said, 'where is the zero meridian?'

The meridian?' The old man pointed to the other side of the summit. 'It's over there.'

But when Hawksmoor came to that place, he found nothing.

'Where is the meridian?' he asked again, and he was directed a little way down the hill. He looked around, and saw only dirt and stones.

'It's over there!' someone else called out. 'No, over there!' was the cry from another. And Hawksmoor was bewildered for, no matter how he turned and turned about, he could not see it.

Walter had put down the forensic report and was grinning at him.

'And so we're stuck,' he said. And then he added: 'As sure as eggs is eggs'- Hawksmoor smoothed the pages of the report which had been creased by Walter. 'Where does that expression come from?'

'It doesn't come from anywhere, sir, not as far as I know. I mean, everyone says it.'

Hawksmoor paused for a moment, wondering what everyone said about him. 'What was it you were asking me just now?'

Walter no longer tried to conceal his impatience: 'I was asking basically, sir, well, where do we go from here?'

'We go on. Where else should we go? We can't turn back. No one can turn back.' He had heard the annoyance in Walter's voice, and now he tried to console him. 'He's at my fingertips -don't worry, I can reach him. I feel it.' And after Walter had left him, he drummed his fingers on the desk as he contemplated new aspects of this problem: at the same time as the body of the child had been found in the grounds of St Alfege's, another body had been discovered propped against the back wall of St George's, Bloomsbury, where it runs alongside Little Russell Street. Hawksmoor had visited that spot also, and to those officers already working there he had seemed almost indifferent; it was not indifference, however, but agony. The pattern, as Hawks- moor saw it, was growing larger; and, as it expanded, it seemed about to include him and his unsuccessful investigations.

It was dark now, and the light from the buildings beyond his window shone on his face as he gave a great yawn. He left the office quietly, made his way out of the yard, and as he walked through the clear night to St George's, Bloomsbury, the cold December air turned his breath into clouds of moisture which rose above his head. He paused at the corner of Russell Street and New Oxford Street as a vagrant, muttering 'Jesus fucking Christ! Jesus fucking Christ!', glared at him; and in alarm he walked quickly up to the church, opening the iron gate which led to the small courtyard beside it. He stood beneath the white tower, and looked up at it with that mournful expression which his face always carried in repose: for one moment he thought of climbing up its cracked and broken stone, and then from its summit screaming down at the silent city as a child might scream at a chained animal. But his sudden anger was destroyed by a noise quite close to him. He remained still; a wooden door to his right seemed to be moving in the wind and, as he peered at it, he saw the sign Crypt Entrance written above the portal. The wind continued to blow the door gently backward and forward: to prevent it from opening too suddenly upon him, he hurried towards it and held it closed with his palm. But the wood felt unnaturally warm, and he snatched his hand away. The door opened slightly once more, and Hawksmoor decided to move it towards him with the tips of his fingers, very softly and very slowly so that it was only gradually he heard a faint but sustained laughter coming from within.

When he had opened the door to a sufficient width he slid through its entrance, holding his breath as he did so although the odours of wood and old stone were already forming a metallic taste in the back of his throat. The passage of the crypt was warm, and in his anxious state he imagined a host of people pressing around him -not touching him but close enough to forbid him movement. He walked forward slowly, since his eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness, but he paused when he thought he heard scuffling noises somewhere in front of him.

He did not cry out, but he lowered himself to the ground and put his hands across his face. The faint sounds had diminished, and now he could hear a voice murmuring, 'Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes'.

Hawksmoor stood up at once and, poised for flight, he bent his body away from the direction of that voice and its whispered words. Then there was silence, and Hawksmoor knew that his presence had been sensed; he heard the sound of something being struck, and the light at the end of the passage made him jerk back his head in astonishment for in that instant he saw a young man, with his trousers draped around his ankles, holding onto a girl who was leaning against the stone wall. 'Fuck off!' the young man screamed, 'fuck off, you old sod!'

And Hawksmoor laughed in relief: 'I'm sorry,' he called out to the couple, as the match flickered out and they once more vanished into the darkness, 'I'm sorry!' When he got out of the passage, he leaned against the wall of the church, fighting for breath; once more he could hear the sound of laughter but, when he looked around, he saw only the rubbish of the city being blown against the church steps.