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security people should be able to help, let you have information on some of our recent troublemakers.’
    He sat back in his chair as if satisfied that some conclusive point had been reached in the discussion.
    ‘All the same,’ Brock said doubtfully, ‘a shooting murder?’
    ‘You get that all the time these days, don’t you?’ Young said. ‘You only have to open the paper . . .’ Then he added, ‘They told me you’re with Serious Crime, is that right, Chief Inspector?’
    ‘It is.’
    ‘Well, I rather fear they may have wasted your time pulling you onto this one. Much more likely to be petty crime turned nasty. Can I offer you something before you go? A drink? Coffee?’
    The Executive Officer, who had taken notes throughout the meeting, put his notepad aside on the edge of the big desk and got to his feet.
    ‘No thanks, Professor Young. I’d better get back to my people.’
    ‘One thing before you go,’ the President said, leaning forward over his steel desk. ‘Concerning the media. I think it would be best if all press statements, media releases, interviews and so on were processed through one office and one office only, don’t you? Our Media Liaison Unit is very good. I’d like to propose that you work through them, just so there’ll be no crossed wires, all right?’
    ‘That won’t be possible,’ Brock replied. ‘We have our own staff who handle all our media contacts. Of course you must go ahead and issue a statement of regret, how Professor Springer contributed to the university, his academic achievements and so on. But nothing concerning the murder, nothing at all. No information about the circumstances, and no speculation about motive or perpetrator. Leave all that to us.’
    The President looked deeply displeased. He regarded Brock for a moment, as if for the first time sizing him up as an opponent. Brock watched Young’s eyes check over his somewhat crumpled black suit, the beard in need of a trim, the shirt chosen for comfort rather than effect, the tie suffering from a small teriyaki sauce incident. ‘I may have to dispute that, Chief Inspector,’ he said finally, ‘at a higher level.’
    ‘Go ahead,’ Brock said, getting to his feet. He turned to the Executive Officer. ‘If I might have my coat?’

3
    D espite the start of a fine drizzle, the crowds on the lower concourse had swollen as more students arrived for evening lectures and heard the news, and Brock had difficulty working his way through to the police line, where he joined up with Bren.
    ‘That student, Briony Kidd, is she still around?’
    ‘Haven’t seen her for a while, chief. But we’ve just got word from the security people. They’ve set the tapes up for us to see, when you’re ready.’
    They moved off through the crowds, back the way Brock had come, for the security office was located close to the entrance to the Central Administration Building, a piece of defensive planning, Brock felt, that accorded well with the President’s reference to his New Model Army and the military cut of his suit. The head of security looked ex-army too, deferential to Brock’s rank, but guarded. His name was Truck, and Brock immediately thought of him as Regimental Sergeant-Major Truck. He showed them to seats in front of the biggest TV screen he’d been able to find, and switched on the VCR. The tape had already been wound to the moment just before Max Springer had appeared at the foot of the steps, and had been taken by the camera on the corner of the lower concourse, looking up the full length of the flight.
    ‘He was on his way to give a lecture, Brock,’ Bren explained, ‘Lecture theatre U3 on the upper concourse.’
    ‘Really? I was told he didn’t give lectures.’
    ‘Well, he definitely planned to give this one. I spoke to three of the students who were in the lecture theatre waiting for him to arrive. It was due to start at four o’clock, so he must have been running a few minutes late.’
    They started the