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Take your pick.’
    Graham shook his head. ‘You must be crazy. How on earth can you possibly find out? Do you expect the guilty man to break down and confess? And anyway - does it really matter now?’
    Shane moved slowly towards him, a frown on his face. ‘Does it really matter? Jesus Christ!' he exploded. ‘Have you forgotten what happened out there? Have you forgotten what we went through and what they did to Simon?’
    Graham looked up at him, a strange expression in his eyes. ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he said, ‘but have you?’
    Despite the humid heat, Shane was aware of a strange coldness. He frowned, and said slowly, ‘I remember everything that happened on that day.’
    Graham shook his head. ‘Can you be sure of that? You couldn’t remember anything for seven years. How can you be so sure of what happened in the temple? How can you be sure it wasn’t you who told Colonel Li what he wanted to know? Maybe it’s the one thing your mind doesn’t want you to recall.’
    For a moment Shane felt as though a giant hand was squeezing his chest so that could not breathe. He struggled for air, throat dry, head turning from side to side, as he tried to speak. He staggered across to the other table, and feverishly poured water from the decanter into a glass. For a moment he choked as the water trickled down his throat, and then suddenly he could breathe again.
    He turned back to Graham, his face bone white. ‘That’s impossible. We were in the same cell together. You know it wasn’t me, just as I know it couldn’t have been you.’
    Graham shook his head gently. ‘But I was unconscious when they brought me back from that last interrogation. I was unconscious for almost an hour.’
    For a moment Shane looked down into the ravaged face, and then he turned and walked back along the path towards the door. Graham moved surprisingly fast, and by the time Shane was pulling on his coat he was at his side.
    ‘I didn’t intend to upset you,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I was simply trying to show you how impossible the whole thing is.’
    Shane tightened his belt and opened the door. ‘You haven’t upset me,’ he said. ‘Simply suggested another possibility I should have thought of myself.’
    He went down the stairs quickly, Graham at his heels, and when they reached the hall Graham opened the front door and moved on to the front porch with him.
    They stood there for a moment, and Shane said, ‘You’ve helped me a lot. I’m grateful for that.’
    Graham shook his head, and said sadly, ‘What good will it do? Who can it possibly help?’
    Shane shrugged, and pulled up the collar of his trench coat. His face was savage and bitter. ‘I don’t know. They say nobody can help the dead, but then I’m a walking dead man, so perhaps I’m an exception. All I do know is that this thing is eating into my guts so that I can’t think of anything else. I’ve got to know which one it was.’
    ‘Even if it should turn out to be yourself?’ Graham said.
    Shane nodded, the skin stretched tightly across his cheek bones. ‘Even if it should turn out to be myself.’
    ‘And when you know, what then?’ Charles Graham said softly.
    For a moment they stood looking into each other’s eyes, and then Shane turned without replying and, descending the steps, walked along the drive towards the gates.

5
    W HEN he alighted from a bus in front of the university the rain had almost stopped, but fog crouched at the ends of the streets and the outlines of the houses seemed to blur and become indistinct.
    He crossed the road to the porter’s lodge at the main entrance and inquired for Adam Crowther. A small, red-faced man in a blue uniform with gold facings, directed him to the Archaeology Department in a side street across the road.
    The area behind the university had obviously been a high-class residential quarter some forty or fifty years before. Many of the houses had circular carriage drives and stood in spacious gardens. Most of