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spread her arms. ‘There’s no such evidence – because we haven’t.’

SCENE 6
    Tuesday 8th April, Evening
    They’d visited the water treatment office, the yachting club and every farm in the area and learned nothing more. Tired and hungry, they’d wolfed down their main courses and were finishing off their meal with puddings. Troy tucked into ice cream and Lexi had a plateful of chocolate-dipped candied ginger crickets.
    Troy swallowed a mango-flavoured mouthful. ‘Maybe the Rural Retreat’s got a hidden basement for illicit transplants.’
    ‘Or – what did Kofi say? – bizarre medicalexperiments.’ Lexi glanced down at her vibrating life-logger and read the incoming message. ‘The weapon search didn’t turn anything up.’
    Troy groaned, because any investigation was a lot easier when forensics had the murder weapon. ‘At least you’ve got the measurements you need to pin down when the latest body was left in the wood, haven’t you?’
    ‘Yes. And the footprint data.’
    ‘The last meal he had,’ said Troy. ‘Locust burger. Is that common?’
    ‘As common as … chips. Which he also had. So you can’t trace him through a restaurant or kitchen where he got it.’ Tapping her life-logger, Lexi said, ‘I’m requesting a list of all known patients who’ve had a hand transplant.’
    ‘That fits. I’d really like to talk to whoever’s got Dmitri Backhouse’s,’ Troy replied. ‘And if someone helped him to die … I’ll check out suicide chat rooms.’
    Grinning, Lexi said, ‘That’ll be a right good laugh.’
    Troy grunted. Changing the subject, he asked her, ‘Do you speak outer?’
    ‘Not very well. English got forced on us at school. Rotten language.’
    ‘Is it?’
    ‘What are you eating?’
    Troy looked down. ‘Ice cream.’
    ‘Yes. It’s a stupid language when you can’t tell the difference between your pudding and “I scream”.’ She mimicked a silent scream. ‘Then there’s “I sing” and the stuff on a cake.’
    Troy nodded and smiled. ‘I see what you mean.’
    ‘It’s even tricky to tell the difference between “new displays” and “nudist plays”.’
    Troy laughed. ‘I’ve never been to a nudist play. Sounds revolting.’
     
    After the meal, Lexi settled into a chair and calmly closed her eyes. She took five deep breaths and relaxed into meditation.
    With a sigh, Troy turned on his computer and went online. He knew he’d have fifteen uninterrupted minutes.
    According to the police files on Dmitri Backhouse, he’d visited a suicide chat room under a username of Backdown. Troy scrolled through endless entries, reading Backdown’s gloomy contributions and looking for any other user who’d encouraged him to die.
    There was nothing obvious. Some contributors discussed methods of dying, mostly focusing ondegree of pain and certainty of success. Some visitors were endlessly optimistic, probably part of a caring charity, pleading with visitors to seek help. Others were supportive of the decision to end life, but they stopped short of promoting it.
    It was clear from his postings that Dmitri Backhouse had lost his faith in God. Like an outer, he saw nothing but the laws of nature. And that had destroyed his sense of worth.
    ‘If there’s nothing after death, why am I bothering to live? What’s the point? Eighty pointless years. I don’t get it.’
    Three visitors had responded almost immediately.  
    ‘Take heart. Outers have no faith. They still lead fulfilling lives.’
    ‘No road goes on for ever, but they all pass through interesting places before they come to an end.’
    ‘The point is to help others. There are many ways of doing it. Some are surprising.’
    It was the third message that grabbed Troy’s attention. Was it referring to donating organs after death? It had been posted by someone with a username of Charon Angel.
    That triggered something in Troy’s memory. He’d heard of Charon. Two minutes of online research told him that, in