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generation before that we lost a million boys in the trenches. A million innocent lads. Now we have ‘therapists’ studying the ‘trauma’ of getting thrown off a television game show. Sometimes I despair, I really do, you know. I despair.’
    ‘Yes, but, sir,’ Trisha said, ‘in the war and stuff people had something to stand up for, something to believe in. These days there isn’t anything for us to believe in very much. Does that make our anxieties and pain any less relevant?’
    ‘Yes, it does!’ Coleridge stopped himself before he could say any more. Even he could occasionally tell when he was sounding like a bigoted, reactionary old idiot. He took a deep breath and returned to the subject of the young woman on the screen.
    ‘So, this Dervla girl went into the house with the purely cerebral intention of observing case studies in stress?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Trisha, referring to her file on Dervla, ‘she felt that the nomination process with its necessary winners and losers offered a perfect chance to study people’s reactions to isolation and rejection.’
    ‘Very laudable I must say.’
    ‘And she also added that ‘she hopes one day to be a television presenter’.’
    ‘Now why does that not surprise me?’ Coleridge sipped his tea and studied the screen.
    ‘One house, ten contestants,’ he said almost to himself.
    ‘One victim.’

DAY THIRTY. 7.00 a.m.
    I t was now three days since the murder, and Coleridge felt as if his investigation had scarcely begun. No forensic evidence of any value had emerged from the search of the house, the suspect interviews had revealed nothing but apparent shock and confusion, the observers at Peeping Tom could not suggest even a hint of a motive, and Coleridge and his excellent team had been reduced to sitting about in front of a television making wild guesses. Coleridge closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Focus, he had to focus, forget the storm that was raging around him and focus. He tried to free his mind, rid it of all thoughts and preconceptions, make of it a blank page upon which some invisible hand might write an answer. The murderer is…But no answer came. It just didn’t seem credible that there had even been a murderer, and yet there had most definitely been a murder. How could it be possible to get away with murder in an entirely sealed environment, every inch of which was covered by television cameras and microphones? Eight people had been watching the screens in the monitoring bunker. Another had been even closer, standing behind the two- way mirrors in the camera runs that surrounded the house. Six others had been present in the room left by the killer to pursue his victim. They were still there when he or she returned shortly thereafter, having committed the murder. An estimated 47,000 more had been watching via the live Internet link, which Peeping Tom provided for its more obsessive viewers. All these people saw the murder happen and yet somehow the killer had outwitted them all. Coleridge felt fear rising in his stomach. Fear that his long and moderately distinguished career was about to end in a spectacular failure. A world-famous failure, for this was now the most notorious case on the planet. Everybody had a theory — every pub, office, and school, every noodle bar in downtown Tokyo, every Turkish bath in Istanbul. Hour by hour Coleridge’s office was bombarded with thousands of emails explaining who the killer was and why he or she had done it. Criminologists and Crackers were popping up all over the place — on the news, in the papers, on-line and in every language. The bookies were taking bets, the spiritualists were chatting to the victim and the Internet was about to collapse under the weight of traffic of webheads exchanging theories. Indeed, the only person who seemed to have absolutely no idea whatsoever of the killer’s identity was Inspector Stanley Spencer Coleridge, the police officer in charge of the investigation. He walked