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than that, I’m not sure. None of them has any apparent motive.’
    ‘An interesting comment in itself.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘You – or your subconscious – hasn’t included anyone else on your suspect list.’
    ‘It must be someone he knows,’ I said, a shade defensively. ‘If not his immediate coterie, then someone else who was close. We can start to expand the list tomorrow.’
    ‘I’m sure we will,’ Francis said.
    It seemed to me that his mind was away on some other great project or problem. He sounded so disinterested.
    *
     
    MURDER . It was the banner scored big and bold across all the street corner newspaper placards, most often garnished with adjectives such as foul , brutal , and insane . The vendors shouted the word in endless repetition, their scarves hanging loosely from their necks as if to give their throats the freedom necessary for such intemperate volume. They waved their lurid journals in the air like some flag of disaster to catch the attention of the hapless pedestrians.
    Francis scowled at them all as we drove back to the police station just before lunchtime. The road seemed busier than usual, with horse-drawn carriages and carts jostling for space with cars. Since the law banning combustion engines, electric vehicles were growing larger with each new model; the newest ones were easily recognizable, with six wheels supporting long bonnets that contained ranks of heavy batteries.
    ‘Those newspapers are utter beasts,’ he muttered. ‘Did you hear, we’ve had to move Justin’s parents from their home so they might grieve in peace? Some reporter tried to pretend he was a relative so he could get inside for an interview. Must be a Short. What is the world degenerating into?’
    When we arrived at the station it was besieged with reporters. Flashbulbs hissed and fizzled at everyone who hurried in or out of the building. Somehow Francis’s angry dignity managed to clear a path through the rabble. Not that we escaped unphotographed, or unquestioned. The impertinence of some was disgraceful, shouting questions and comments at me as if I were some circus animal fit only to be provoked. I wished we could have taken our own photographs in turn, collecting their names to have them hauled before their senior editors for censure.
    It was only after I got inside that I realized our family must have interests in several of the news agencies involved. Commerce had become the driving force here, overriding simple manners and decency.
    We were shown directly to Gareth Alan Pitchford’s office. He had the venetian blinds drawn, restricting the sunlight and, more importantly, the reporters’ view inside. Neill Heller Caesar was already there. He wore the same smart suit and shirt that he’d had on for the interviews. I wondered if he’d been here the whole time, and if we’d made a tactical error by allowing him such freedom. I judged Francis was making the same calculation.
    The detective bade us sit, and had one of his secretaries bring round a tray with fresh coffee.
    ‘You saw the press pack outside,’ he said glumly. ‘I’ve had to assign officers to escort Justin’s friends.’
    ‘I think we had better have a word,’ Francis said to Neill Heller Caesar. ‘The editors can be relied upon to exert some restraint.’
    Neill Heller Caesar’s smile lacked optimism. ‘Let us hope so.’
    ‘What progress?’ I enquired of the detective.
    His mood sank further. ‘A long list of negatives, I’m afraid. I believe it’s called the elimination process. Unfortunately, we’re eliminating down to just about nothing. My team is currently piecing together the movements of all the students at Dunbar preceding the murder, but it’s not a promising avenue of approach. There always seem to have been several people in the corridor outside Mr Raleigh’s room. If anyone had come out, they would have been seen. The murderer most likely did use the window as an exit. Forensic is going over the wisteria