She couldn't resist it. “Under the thumb, Greg—you?”

His smile was bright and proud. “Certainly am, I have two women in my life now. Christine is six months old.”

“Oh, I didn't know. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Amanda and Mike Wilson took it in turns to brief Greg on the case as they drove out to Uppingham. Just before they got to the roundabout with the A47 at Uppingham, Greg said: “I'd like to take a look at the apartment first.”

“Why is that necessary?” Wilson asked.

“It's best if I can get a feel for the event,” Greg said. “Sometimes my intuition can be quite strong. It might help with the interview.”

They pulled up in Church Vista's courtyard. Greg got out and looked round, head tilted back slightly as if he was sniffing at the air. Wilson watched him, but didn't comment. There was a police seal on the door to apartment three, which Amanda's card opened.

Greg went over to the red outline at the foot of the stairs. “What was the result from the security 'ware?”

“As far as we can tell it's clean,” Mike Wilson said. “If it was tampered with, then whoever did it covered their tracks perfectly.”

“Hmm.” Greg nodded and started to walk round, glancing at the coffee table with its spread of glossy art books.

“We've collected statements from all the neighbors now,” Amanda said. “None of them heard or saw any other car arriving or departing that night. It was only Claire and the Ingalo. And we've received the enhanced images from the security camera by the gates. She was the only person in it coming in and out.”

“Well, I can appreciate your problem,” Greg said. He was walking along the wall, examining the pictures one at a time. “Circumstances make it look like a professional hit, but pushing Tyler down the stairs is strictly a chance killing.”

“Tell me,” Amanda muttered. “We know there was someone else here, we even know what they look like. But everything else we've got says it's Claire.”

“Can I see the image you assembled from the genome data?”

Mike Wilson flipped open his cybofax and showed Greg the image while it ran through its eighteen-to-eighty lifecycle.

“Doesn't ring any psychic bells,” Greg said. He stopped beside the smallest painting on the wall, a picture of a hill with a strange object in the air above it. “This is a bit out of place, isn't it?” The pictures on either side were colored chalk sketches of ballerinas clad only in tutus.

“Is that relevant?” Wilson asked as he slipped the cybofax back in his jacket pocket. He was beginning to sound more positive, overcoming his apprehension of the gland and its reputation.

“Probably not,” Greg admitted. He led them up the stairs into the bedroom. The crime scene team had tagged the three cameras that were discreetly hidden within elaborate picture frames, the units no bigger than a coat button. Slender fiber-optic threads buried in the plaster linked them to an AV recorder deck in a chest of drawers.

“And you say there's no sign of a struggle?” Greg asked.

“No. The only thing messed up was the bed.”

“Right.” He stood in the door, looking at the top of the stairs. “If it was a professional hit, then the murderer could have waited until just after Claire had left, then thrown Tyler down the stairs. That would disguise the fact it was a hit, which would stop us looking for anyone else with a motive. Was Tyler alive when he fell?”

“The autopsy says yes. The impact snapped his neck, he was killed instantly.”

“What about bruising or marks? If he was alive when he was forced to the stairs he would have put up some kind of struggle.”

“No bruising,” Amanda said.

“That doesn't necessarily follow,” Mike Wilson said. “He'd only struggle if he realized what was happening. If the murderer made out he was a burglar and made him walk to the stairs with a gun to his head he wouldn't have fought back.”

Greg pulled a face, looking from the bed to the stairs. “Yeah, this is all possible, but very tenuous. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.” He went over to the chest of drawers, and bent down to study the AV recorder, fingertips tracing the slender optical threads back into the skirting board. “How old is this place?”

“The apartment was finished two and a half years ago,” Amanda said. “Tyler moved in just over two years ago.”

“So he probably had it wired up then,” Greg said. “How much did the apartment cost him?”

“Five hundred and fifty thousand New Sterling. There's over four hundred thousand outstanding on the mortgage. He was late with several payments.”

“So he doesn't own it. I thought he was rich.”

“By our standards he's loaded. But he had one hell of a lifestyle, and he didn't star in that many action interactives. Strictly C-list when it comes to the celebrity stakes. He's definitely short of hard cash.”

Greg went over to the bed, running a hand along the edge of the mattress. “Did he make any recordings of himself with Claire?”

“I'm not sure,” Amanda said. “Let me check if Alison's loaded the list in yet.” She opened her cybofax and linked in to the station 'ware. “We're in luck, she's just finished it. Let's see…Yes, there's three crystals of Claire.”

“When was the last one dated?”

“Three weeks ago.”

“Why the interest?” Mike Wilson asked.

“That's a lot of recording time for one girl,” Greg said. “And Claire doesn't come over here that often, or stay long when she does. That suggests he records every time. So why didn't he record last Wednesday night?”

“He did,” Amanda said instinctively. She could see where he was going with this. “And the murderer took the memox crystal because he was caught by the cameras in here. Which implies that whoever the murderer is, he struck very quickly after Claire left. So close the recorder was still on.”

“No messing,” Greg said.

Tamzin Sullivan had returned home. When Amanda, Greg and Mike Wilson were shown into the bungalow, the bereaved girl was sitting in the lounge. To show her grief at the loss of her future husband she was wearing traditional black in the form of a less traditional micro dress with a deep scoop-top. Colin, from Hothouse, was fussing around with her mother while a seamstress made last minute adjustments to the shoulder straps, a makeup artist was finishing off the girl's face.

It was Claire who had answered the door and ushered them in. As soon as the sisters glanced at each other the atmosphere chilled to a level below that Tyler's apartment had ever reached. Daniel, who was lurking behind the sofa, shrank away from the visitors.

“This is not an appropriate time for you to be here,” Margina said imperiously. “The Starlight crew will be here any minute.”

“I apologize for interrupting you at what is undoubtedly a difficult time,” Amanda said; it was her best official sympathy voice. She marveled she could manage to keep it irony-free. “But I'm afraid we do have some questions for Tamzin, and Claire again. We'll be brief.”

Tamzin glanced at Colin, who gave a small nod.

“I'll help in whatever way I can,” Tamzin said. “I want Byrne's murderer caught. Have you found the piece of scum yet?” Her gaze flicked pointedly to her sister.

“We have a possible suspect.”

Mike Wilson showed her his cybofax, running the image. “Do you recognize this man? We think Byrne knew him.”

Tamzin leaned forward with considerable interest, fabric straining. Amanda saw Wilson's glance slither helplessly down to her cleavage, and prayed hard no one else had seen.

“No. I don't.”

He went onto show the image to Margina, Claire, and even Colin. They all said they had never seen the man before.

“What about threats?” Amanda asked. “Do you know if anyone was being abusive to him recently?”

“No,” Tamzin said. “There was nothing like that. He did have a few crank callers, everyone as famous as us has them; but the agency screened them for him.”