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at Doug MacDougall, trying to figure out what to say. If my formless doubts hadn’t cut any ice with Paula, there wasn’t the remotest chance they would impress the Pareto. He was sneering at me bigtime as it was, and would cut me down mercilessly if I voiced the mix of hunch and intuition that made me think there might be more to this than met the eye. Still, I was going to voice my doubts anyway. I opened my mouth, not quite sure exactly what I was going to say.
    Paula beat me to it. No doubt scared my idiocy would reflect badly on her, given she’s my immediate superior, she hurriedly said, “We can probably close the case with an autopsy.”
    â€œGood,” the Pareto said.
    So we could all live happily ever after.
    Well, except for Doug MacDougall.
    And, as it turned out, not-so-perfect Paula.
    And, of course, me.
    Not to mention all the other people in every haven on the planet.

CHAPTER 4
S LO -M O
    I HAD A SNOOP AROUND THE APARTMENT WHILE WE waited for the body to be bagged. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I was sure things weren’t quite what they seemed.
    By the time I got back where I’d started, Paula had rolled up the left sleeve of Doug’s green coveralls and was checking for signs of previous drug abuse. That was when I realized one of the things that wasn’t right about the scene we’d walked in on. “His sleeve,” I said, thinking aloud.
    Paula gave me a questioning look. That’s the nicest thing I can call it.
    â€œHis sleeve should have already been rolled up,” I said by way of explanation.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œHe wouldn’t have injected himself through his coveralls.”
    â€œWhy not? He wouldn’t have to worry about introducing textile fragments into his bloodstream if he was injecting enough drugs to kill himself.”
    That was perfectly logical, but I would roll up my sleeve before injecting anything into my arm, and I’m certain other people—well, other Names—would do likewise.
    The arrival of the haven counselors saved me from trying to explain any of that to Paula.
    We’re supposed to brief the counselors in cases like this so they can break the bad news to the next of kin. They work in male and female Name and Number pairs—like LogiPol wardens, and for pretty much the same reasons. I sensed the same sort of antipathy between this pair as there is between me and Paula, and took a perverse satisfaction from it. The knowledge that these people, who are trained to get on with everyone, can’t get on with each other made me feel less unreasonable and bigoted in comparison.
    Paula related what we knew about Doug and his death, and passed on what she’d learned from the Ecosystem about his next of kin—a daughter called Annie, who taught in Haven Nine’s school. Each haven has its own little school. Pupils who do well go on to the Learning Zone, a self-contained university in Community Central.
    Normally I’m only too glad to let counselors break bad news to the next of kin. I find it hard enough coping with my own emotions, let alone helping someone else deal with theirs. However, the same instinct that led me to believe there might be more to Doug’s death than met the eye made me think it would be worth accompanying the counselors to see if Annie MacDougall’s shock and grief were genuine. While I was there, I could slip in a few questions about her father’s state of mind and the people who made up his world.
    Another callout, this time to a disturbance in an apartment on level eight, prevented me from suggesting any of that to Paula. The counselors headed off to break the news to Annie MacDougall, and Paula and I hurried for the lift.
    We heard the racket as soon as we got to level eight, and it gave me a good idea what to expect. It sounded like the occupants of the apartment we’d been called to were watching a sexually explicit