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second.’
    ‘A second?’ Darac went to run a hand through his hair before he remembered he was wearing a hood. ‘Has anyone told you about the old woman and her murder chariot?’
    ‘Yes, they have. It does sound preposterous, you’re right.’
    ‘And yet…’ There was a slight tear on the right sleeve of the dead man’s jacket, Darac noticed. ‘There isn’t a wound under there, I suppose?’
    ‘There’s an abrasion.’
    ‘Sufficient to conceal a puncture mark?’
    ‘Perhaps. If you would let me get back to the lab, I’ll find out for you.’
    Darac needed just one more guideline.
    ‘So it’s more likely that once injected, the drug would take effect quickly. But go to the low probability end of the scale. What sort of time gap is possible with the slow-acting types?’
    ‘That’s much more difficult to say.’
    ‘Seconds? Minutes?’
    Deanna shrugged.
    ‘Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Come on, Darac – give me a break.’
    ‘If we have to,’ he smiled.
    ‘Oh, there’s one thing I haven’t mentioned. His feet.’
    Granot and Darac studied them for a moment. And then shook their heads.
    ‘There are signs of a residue between the toes. It’s faint but see there?’
    Now that it had been pointed out, Darac could see it clearly.
    ‘Talcum? Soap?’
    ‘I don’t know. I’ll let you know what I find. So – okay to move the body?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Boys?’
    The men from the morgue unclipped the stretcher from the trolley and began picking their way towards her.
    ‘And where’s the photographer got to?’
    ‘Here, Professor.’
    ‘The cardboard mats are almost ready for their close-ups.’
    Granot pulled Darac aside.
    ‘This thing is intriguing, alright, but it doesn’t look like we’re dealing with World War Three here, does it?’
    ‘No, no.’
    ‘Okay, so after the lycée principal has formally identified our friend over at the morgue, I might take the rest of the day off, after all. Alright with you?’
    ‘Sure.’
    They watched as the stretcher boys trod their way carefully around the body.
    ‘So, the Shopping Trolley Killer.’ Granot tugged at his moustache. ‘You’re not seriously giving credence to the idea, are you, chief? For one thing, where would an old woman get hold of a potentially lethal muscle relaxant?’
    ‘If she did do it, she’s not just any old woman, is she? And the drug got into the dead man somehow – assuming Deanna’s right about it, and I’ll bet she is.’
    ‘One, two… lift!’
    The move was carried out with a precision that belied the morgue boys’ brawn. Nevertheless, freeing the body moved both bits of cardboard a fraction. Sticking out from under one of them was the point of something shiny.
    The flashgun fired.
    ‘What is that?’ Granot screwed up his eyes. ‘A needle?’
    Deanna’s ears pricked up.
    ‘Print kit back here, please! Uncover it, will you, Granot?’
    He did so. The shiny point wasn’t a needle. It was the tip of a key.

2.55 PM
    At first, he hadn’t understood why the climate control unit featured two display screens. But then someone explained it to him. The first screen showed the temperature the room should be; the second, its actual temperature. He looked at them. Both read 21.2 degrees. Twenty-one point two, he noted. They go in for precision here. Reassuring.
    He drifted off to sleep. He drifted into wakefulness.
    Once his slow-mo eyes had finally racked into focus, he noticed that aspiration and performance were still locked at 21.2 degrees. He felt reassured all over again. But then, out of nowhere, a subversive thought hit him. Why should he believe what the displays said? How did he know those figures were accurate? Perhaps the numbers were just stuck at 21.2. Perhaps the thing wasn’t working at all. Perhaps it was all a trick. A trick to gull the naive.
    No, no – everything was alright. He remembered that a minute ago, or ten minutes ago, or ten days ago, the second display had briefly read 21.1. Yes, that’s