‘Well … I told you. I’m a little psychic. So maybe I was picking up on it – that’s why Naxos popped into my head.’

Mariana frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe that.’

‘Well, it’s true.’ There was an awkward pause. Then Fred went on, quickly, ‘Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings—’

‘You didn’t, really. It doesn’t matter. Forget it.’

‘Is that why you called me? To tell me this?’

Mariana shook her head. ‘No.’

She wasn’t sure why she had called him. It was probably a mistake. She had told herself she needed Fred’s help, but in truth this was an excuse – she was probably just lonely, and upset by her meeting with Fosca. She felt annoyed with herself for doing it – but too late, he was here now. They might as well make the best of it. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to show you something.’

They made their way inside the college, and walked across Main Court, and then through the archway, into Eros Court.

As they entered the courtyard, Mariana glanced up at Zoe’s room. Zoe wasn’t there – she was in a class with Clarissa. Mariana purposefully hadn’t told her about Fred, because Mariana didn’t quite know how to explain him to Zoe, or to herself.

As they neared Tara’s staircase, Mariana nodded at the ground-floor window. ‘This is Tara’s room. On the night she died, her bedder saw her leave this room at a quarter to eight exactly.’

Fred gestured at the gate at the rear of Eros Court – which led out onto the Backs. ‘And she went out that way?’

‘No.’ Mariana shook her head. She pointed in the other direction, through the archway. ‘She went out through Main Court.’

‘Hmm. That’s odd … The back gate leads onto the river – the quickest way to Paradise.’

‘Which suggests … she was going somewhere else.’

‘To meet Conrad, like he said?’

‘Possibly.’ Mariana thought for a moment. ‘There’s something else – Morris, the porter, saw Tara leave by the front gate at eight o’clock. So if she left her room at a quarter to eight—?’

She left the question hanging. Fred finished it.

‘Why did it take her fifteen minutes to walk a distance that takes a minute or two at most? I see … Well, it could be anything. She could have been texting someone, or seen a friend, or—’

As he was talking, Mariana looked at the flower bed under Tara’s window – a patch of purple and pink foxgloves.

And there, on the earth, was a cigarette butt. She bent down and picked it up. It had a distinctive white filter.

‘That’s an American brand,’ said Fred.

Mariana nodded. ‘Yes … like Professor Fosca smokes.’

‘Fosca?’ Fred spoke in a low voice. ‘I know about him. I’ve got friends in this college. I’ve heard the stories.’

Mariana glanced at him. ‘What stories? What are you talking about?’

‘Cambridge is a small place. Everybody talks.’

‘And what do they say?’

‘That Fosca’s famous – or infamous … His parties are, anyway.’

‘What parties? What do you know?’

Fred shrugged. ‘Not much. They’re only for his students. But I mean – I heard they’re pretty wild.’ He stared at her closely, reading her expression. ‘You think he had something to do with it? With Tara’s murder?’

Mariana deliberated, then gave in. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you.’

They walked around the perimeter of the courtyard as she told him all about Tara’s accusations against Fosca – and his subsequent denial, his corroborated alibi; and how, despite this, Mariana was unable to let it go. She expected Fred to laugh or scoff, or at the very least disbelieve her – but he didn’t. And she felt grateful to him for that. She found herself warming to him, and, for the first time, feeling less alone.

‘Unless Veronica and Serena and the others are lying,’ Mariana finished by saying, ‘Fosca was with them the whole time – except for a couple of minutes, when he went outside for a cigarette …’

‘Plenty of time,’ said Fred, ‘if he had seen Tara through the window, to go down and meet here, in the court.’

‘And arrange to meet her in Paradise at ten o’clock?’

‘That’s right. Why not?’

Mariana shrugged. ‘He still couldn’t have done it. If Tara was murdered at ten, he couldn’t have got there in time. It takes twenty minutes to walk there, at least, and probably longer by car …’

Fred thought for a second. ‘Unless he went by water.’

Mariana looked at him blankly. ‘What?’

‘Maybe he took a punt.’

‘A punt?’ She almost laughed, it sounded so absurd.

‘Why not? No one watches the river – no one would notice a punt – particularly at night. He could arrive and leave invisibly … in a couple of minutes.’

Mariana thought about it. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘Can you punt?’

‘Not very well.’

‘I can.’ Fred grinned. ‘As it happens, I’m quite good – if I say so myself … How about it?’

‘How about what?’

‘We go to the boathouse, borrow a punt – and test it out? Why not?’

Before Mariana could respond, her phone rang. It was Zoe. She answered immediately.

‘Zoe? Are you okay?’

‘Where are you?’ Zoe’s voice had that urgent, anxious quality, telling Mariana that something was wrong.

‘I’m in college. Where are you?’

‘I’m with Clarissa. The police were just here—’

‘Why? What happened?’

There was a pause. Mariana could hear her trying not to cry. Zoe spoke in a low whisper. ‘It’s happened again.’

‘What – do you mean?’

Mariana knew what Zoe meant. She needed her to spell it out, just the same.

‘Another stabbing,’ Zoe said. ‘They found another body.’

Part Three

The perfect plot, accordingly, must have a single, and not (as some tell us) a double issue; the change in the hero’s fortunes must be not from misery to happiness, but on the contrary from happiness to misery; and the cause of it must lie not in any depravity, but in some great error on his part.

Aristotle, Poetics

1

The body had been found in a field, on the edge of Paradise. It was medieval common land, for which farmers had ancient grazing rights, and a farmer, putting his herd of cows out to graze that morning, had made the grisly discovery.

Mariana was anxious about getting there as soon as possible. Despite Zoe’s furious protestations, Mariana refused to allow her to accompany her. She was determined to shield Zoe from as much unpleasantness as possible. And this was bound to be unpleasant.

Instead, she set off with Fred. He used the map on his phone to guide them to the field.

As they walked along the river, past the colleges and meadows, Mariana breathed in the smell of grass and earth and the trees – and was transported back to that first autumn, all those years ago, when she had arrived in England, having exchanged the humid heat of Greece for the charcoal skies and wet grass of East Anglia.

Since then, the English countryside had never lost its thrill for Mariana – until today. Today she felt no thrill, just a sick sense of dread. These fields and meadows she loved, these pathways she’d walked with Sebastian, were forever tainted. No longer synonymous with love and happiness – from now on, they would only ever mean blood and death.

They walked mainly in silence. After about twenty minutes, Fred pointed up ahead. ‘There it is.’

In front of them lay a field. At the entry to the field was a line of vehicles – police cars, news vans – parked behind one another along the dirt track. Mariana and Fred walked past the cars until they reached the police cordon, where several officers were keeping the press at bay. There was also a small crowd of onlookers.

Mariana glanced at the onlookers, and suddenly remembered the ghoulish crowd that had gathered on the beach to watch as Sebastian’s body was dragged from the water. She remembered those faces – expressions of concern masking prurient excitement. God, she’d hated them – and now, seeing the same expressions here, she felt sick.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

But Fred didn’t move. He looked a little uncertain. ‘Where are we going?’

Mariana pointed past the police cordon. ‘That way.’

‘How are we going to get in? They’ll see us.’

Mariana looked around. ‘How about you go over and distract them – give me the chance to slip past?’

‘Sure. I can do that.’

‘You don’t mind not coming?’

Fred shook his head. He didn’t meet her eye. ‘To be honest, I’m a bit squeamish about blood – bodies and things. I’d rather wait here.’

‘Okay. I won’t be long.’

‘Good luck.’

‘You too,’ she said.

He took a moment to summon up his nerve. Then he walked over to the police officers. He started talking to them, asking them questions – and Mariana seized her chance.

She went up to the cordon, lifted it up, and ducked underneath.

Then she straightened up and kept going – but only took a few steps before she heard a voice.

‘Hey! What are you doing?’

Mariana turned around. A police officer was charging towards her.

‘Stop. Who are you?’