“None. Braston pointed out that she could well have simply stumbled and fallen, except that she obviously landed on her left side, and it was the right side of her face that was injured. And that when people in good shape fall face forward and to the side, and land on their arms, they don’t usually bash themselves in the head fatally. In her opinion. But she isn’t entirely ruling out accidental death.”

“That’s interesting,” said Sanders, scribbling down bits and pieces from the account onto the paper in front of him. “It doesn’t really sound much like the others, does it? Of course, the Parsons woman didn’t fit the pattern precisely either. Maybe he was interrupted again. Did Melissa think she had been raped?”

“She didn’t have any opinion on the matter. She got a bit ratty about it when I tried to push her. Intercourse she is willing to testify to, which might or might not be forcible rape.”

“Maybe she wasn’t. If he did rape her, he’s leaving more and more clothes on them. This one seemed to be mussed up but was probably still wearing everything she came out in.”

“Yeah,” said Dubinsky, “but look at what she was wearing. He didn’t have to take much off, did he? She’s practically inviting him, dressed like that.”

“Have you checked whether the gravel on the body comes from that section of the footpath?” Sanders suddenly looked at his watch. It was getting late, and there was a limit to the amount of time that Eleanor would be willing to wait. Dubinsky shook his head. “Then get on to that, and I’ll go over what we have from here, and talk to that building superintendent. No need for you to hang around any longer.”

“Sure,” said Dubinsky, picking up his raincoat and heading for the door. “Have fun with the super.”

Sanders scooped up the papers lying on the desk and strode quickly out toward the main door. As he passed the principal’s office, Annabel popped out with two glossy eight-by-ten black and white prints. “These were taken for the yearbook, and they’re the only pictures we have with her in them, but Miss Johnson said that you’re welcome to them. We really don’t need them back.”

He took the prints with a vague smile and headed rapidly out to the parking lot. Eleanor was sitting in her car, flipping aimlessly through a copy of Vogue when he opened the door and slid in beside her. She jumped. “Oof! You scared me. I wasn’t expecting you to show up so soon. I must be getting a bit edgy.” She smiled tentatively at him. “You’re looking pretty good, John.” She paused a minute. “Well, actually, you don’t, now that I look at you. Ghastly is more like it. Have you been sick?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said abruptly. “Look, I can’t talk to you in a school parking lot. The last time I tried that I must have been sixteen. Let’s get out of here.”

“Sure.” Eleanor extracted her keys from her purse and started the car. “Where do you want to go?”

The answer to that one leapt into his mind with ferocious speed. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and also knew that it would be impossible. They were so close to Eleanor’s huge, uncluttered apartment, with its low, sloping ceiling and its glass doors that led out onto a deck that overlooked garden and ravine. But that would not be a good idea right now. “Let’s get a drink somewhere quiet. Some place close, since I have to interview an apartment super over on MacNiece.”

“Why don’t you see him first, then, since it’s just around the corner from my place? Then we can walk over to Yonge and Bloor. Would you like a ride to MacNiece? It’s on my way. What did you do with your car?” She had looked around for an understated Toronto unmarked police car and had seen only the usual varied collection of teachers’ and shinier parents’ cars.

“I came with Dubinsky and sent him away again with it. Subconsciously I must have assumed that you would offer me a ride.” He grinned and put the pictures in his hand down on his knee as he twisted to do up the seat belt.

“What are these?” asked Eleanor, picking them up. “Not pictures of the girl who was killed, are they?” She looked more closely at the one on top. “You know, I think I’ve met one in this group—in a funny kind of way. She lifts weights over at the health club I’ve joined. Snarky as hell. That one, with the longish hair.” Eleanor pointed to the picture of Jane Conway standing with the rest of the science department in a huddle on the front steps.

“That one?” said Sanders. “Are you sure?” He took the pictures and pulled the second shot out to show her. “Do you recognize her in this group?”

“Sure. That one—same longish hair, same face, but you can see the snarky expression even better.” She paused a second. “I guess she’s the one, isn’t she?”

He brushed aside the question. “She lifted weights? Recently? When did you see her there last? And what in hell were you doing in a health club where women lift weights?”

Eleanor put the car in gear and quietly left the parking lot. “Which question do you want me to answer first? Anyway, it had to be recently, because I just started two weeks ago, and that was when I saw her. I asked her a simple question, and she bit my head off. I was terribly embarrassed. And I was there because I’ve taken up health and fitness—for self-protection and the general fun of it.” By this time the Rabbit had accomplished the very brief journey over to MacNiece Avenue. “Which house do you want?”

“Number thirty-seven. It’s the apartment building,” he said. “Right over there.”

“If you give me a call—upstairs, my phone—I’ll meet you in front of the house. Do you want the number?”

“I have it,” he said, a little too emphatically, as he clambered out of the car. “And I won’t be long, unless she knows a great deal more than I think she does.”

“I take it that the lady wasn’t very well informed,” Eleanor said lightly after the waitress had put their beers down and left.

“Not very well at all,” said Sanders. “Lots of insinuations about the general level of morals among her younger female tenants, and absolutely no information about Conway at all. It seems to take an explosion to pry her away from her TV set. She probably doesn’t even recognize half the tenants.” He opened his mouth to carry on in the same vein, then stopped abruptly. “I’ve missed you, you know. Painfully. It seems like a very long time since I’ve seen you.”

“It has been,” said Eleanor. “Since last summer, I believe.” She looked at him steadily, then dropped her eyes back down to her glass. “I’m really not as hard to find as you are. I did consider dialing 911 to see what would happen, but I was afraid that someone else might take the call.”

Her attempt at humour had the paradoxical effect of tightening the already tense atmosphere. Sanders stared into his glass. “Someone else would have.” He tried to smile in turn. “It’s not a very efficient way to reach me. I’ve left Marie, you know.”

“Oh,” said Eleanor. “No, I didn’t know. When?”

“Last weekend, actually. And I don’t see why you would know. No one does, I suppose, but Dubinsky and the switchboard, who have my new telephone number. It’s funny, though. The first thing that happens is that I run into you again. You don’t know how many times I’ve almost called you, but didn’t.”

“Why not?” asked Eleanor. “It never occurred to me that I was that terrifying. No one else seems to find me even slightly alarming.” She leaned back in her chair, arm along the back, with her head resting on her hand and her fingers thrust through her untidy red curls. Her expression hovered halfway between amusement and hostility. “You’re not being wildly convincing.”

“Dammit, you know perfectly well that I’m not terrified of you. Can’t you understand the position I was in? You could credit me with some conscience at least.”

“Oh, really?” said Eleanor in polite disbelief. “That certainly wasn’t the impression that I got last summer. Isn’t tormented loyalty a new line? I wasn’t all that aware of it before.”