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tape, the time at the foot of the screen showing 16:02. ‘There! That’s him. The sports jacket.’
    Truck froze the image and they peered at the figure which had appeared in the bottom left of the screen, short, stockily built, shoulders stooped, head thrust forward, a bald patch in the middle of a shaggy mop of white hair, briefcase stuffed under the left arm.
    ‘Right. No sign of the killer? No. OK, let’s go on.’
    The figure lurched into motion again, the gait slow and deliberate climbing the steps with a suggestion of a weak hip or leg. They watched in silence as more agile figures streamed past the old man in both directions, ignoring him. Then Bren shouted, ‘There!’ and pointed at someone at top right, emerging at the head of the stairs, a figure wearing a hood. ‘He must have been waiting for him up there in that doorway.’
    ‘Can we close in on them?’ Brock asked.
    Truck shook his head. ‘Not on this, sir.’
    They advanced the film slowly, watching the hooded figure come down the steps, hands in the pockets of his parka, head down. He seemed light on his feet and attracted no attention from the people who passed. The room was completely silent as the viewers watched the gap between the figure and the old man close. When they were only a few steps apart, both suddenly reacted. The old man abruptly stopped, as if fearing collision with the figure approaching directly in front of him, while the other raised his hooded head, but didn’t stop.
    ‘Springer is looking directly at him,’ Brock said. ‘He’s seen the mask.’
    ‘Yeah. And that bloke there’ Bren pointed to a youth in a bomber jacket some yards behind and to the right, ‘that’s our witness who said he saw the killer speak. He’s right where he said he was.’
    Now the hooded figure was pulling his hands from his pockets, and they could see the right hand holding something, not a gun, surely, but something bulky, irregular, misshapen and light in colour.
    ‘What the hell is that?’
    Both police officers were down on their knees in front of the screen now, trying to make it out. Then Brock said, ‘It’s a bag, Bren, a plastic bag.’
    ‘To hide the gun?’
    ‘Or to catch the cartridges as they eject. Let’s see if he keeps it inside the bag when he fires.’
    They slowly advanced the film, frame by frame, as the killer moved into a weird, slow motion ballet down to the old man and embraced him as the witness had described. There was a brief burst of white smoke against the dark of the gunman’s coat, then the old man, who had been motionless throughout the approach, began to crumple, his briefcase slipping out of his grasp.
    ‘Exit wound,’ Bren said, pointing to the old man’s back.
    ‘Looks like it. What about the gun?’
    The killer had now pivoted away and he was presenting his right side to the camera, the plastic bag clearly visible. They watched the two figures separate and take their different courses, Max Springer to tumble back down the steps, the other running diagonally away from him and the watching student towards the lower concourse.
    Brock and Bren returned to their seats. Truck ran the film through for them a couple more times, and found a magnifying glass for them to study some of the frames more closely. They got an impression of light coloured trainer shoes, but little else.
    ‘No,’ Brock said finally, ‘I can’t make out whether he’s speaking to Springer. We’ll have to see what the lab can do with it. But at least we know he still had the bag in his hand when he reached the bottom of the stairs.’
    ‘So that means it could have been an automatic.’
    ‘Yes, or a rifle with a sawn-off barrel and stock. Either way we’ve been looking for the shells in the wrong place. If they were inside the bag, which would have had a hole in it after the firing, and if he still had it in his hand as he escaped, there’s a chance they may have dropped out as he ran. We should be looking on the entry