‘Just gone eleven, dear. Didn’t wake you, did I?’

She leaned in, past Mariana, peering at the unmade bed. Mariana could smell cigarette smoke on her, and was that alcohol on her breath? Or was it her own breath she was smelling?

‘I didn’t sleep well,’ Mariana said. ‘I had a nightmare.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Elsie tutted sympathetically. ‘I’m not surprised, with all that’s going on. I’m afraid I have more bad news, dear. But I thought you should know.’

‘What?’ Mariana stared at her, her eyes wide. She was suddenly fully awake, and felt scared. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’ll tell you if you give me a chance. Aren’t you going to ask Elsie in?’

Mariana stepped back, and Elsie entered the room. She smiled at Mariana and put down her bucket. ‘That’s better. Best prepare yourself, dear.’

‘What is it?’

‘They found another body.’

‘What? When?’

‘This morning – by the river. Another girl.’

It took Mariana a second to find her voice.

‘Zoe – where’s Zoe?’

Elsie shook her head. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about Zoe. She’s safe enough. Probably still lazing in bed, if I know her.’ She smiled. ‘I can see it runs in the family.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Elsie – who is it? Tell me.’

Elsie smiled. There was something truly ghoulish in her expression. ‘It was little Serena.’

‘Oh God—’ Mariana’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She choked back a sob.

Elsie tutted sympathetically. ‘Poor little Serena. Ah, well, the Lord moves in mysterious ways … I’d best get on – no rest for the wicked.’

She turned to go – then she stopped. ‘Goodness me. Nearly forgot … This was under your door, dear.’

Elsie reached into the bucket and pulled something out. She handed it to Mariana.

‘Here—’

It was a postcard.

The image on the postcard was one Mariana recognised – a black-and-white Ancient Greek vase, thousands of years old, depicting the sacrifice of Iphigenia by Agamemnon.

As Mariana turned it over, her hand was trembling. And on the back, as she knew there would be, was a handwritten quotation in Ancient Greek:

τοιγ?ρ σ? ποτ? ο?ραν?δαι

π?μψουσιν θαν?τοι?: ? σ?ν

?τ? ?τι φ?νιον ?π? δ?ραν

?ψομαι α?μα χυθ?ν σιδ?ρ?

Mariana had a strange feeling of vertigo, of dizziness, as she stared at the postcard in her hand; as if she were looking down on it from a great height – and in danger of losing her balance, and falling down … into a deep, dark abyss.

20

Mariana didn’t move for a moment. She felt paralysed, rooted to the spot. She barely noticed Elsie leave the room.

She kept staring at the postcard in her hands, unable to look away, transfixed; as if the Ancient Greek letters had caught fire in her mind, and were blazing and burning themselves into her brain.

With some effort, she turned the postcard face down, breaking its spell. She needed to think clearly – she needed to work out what to do.

She had to tell the police, of course. Even if they thought she was crazy, which they probably already did, she couldn’t keep these postcards to herself any longer – she had to tell Inspector Sangha.

She had to find him.

She slipped the postcard into her back pocket, and left her room.

It was an overcast morning; the sun had yet to penetrate the clouds, and a wispy carpet of mist was still hovering in pools above the ground like smoke. And through the gloom, across the courtyard, Mariana made out the figure of a man.

Edward Fosca was standing there.

What was he doing? Waiting to see Mariana’s reaction to the postcard? Getting off on it, relishing her torment? She couldn’t see his expression, but she felt sure he was smiling.

And Mariana was suddenly very angry.

It was unlike her to lose control – but now, because she had barely slept, and because she was so upset and scared and angry … she let go. It wasn’t bravery as much as desperation: a violent expulsion of her anguish – directed at Edward Fosca.

Before she knew it, she was charging across the courtyard towards him. Did he flinch a little? Possibly. It was unexpected, this sudden approach, but he stood his ground – even when she reached him and stopped, inches away from his face, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wild, breathing hard.

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, with mounting anger.

He gave her an uncertain smile. ‘Good morning, Mariana.’

Mariana held up the postcard. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Hmm?’

Fosca took the postcard. He glanced at the inscription on the back. He murmured in Greek as he read it. There was a flicker of a smile on his lips.

‘What does it mean?’ she repeated.

‘It’s from Electra by Euripides.’

‘Tell me what it says.’

Fosca smiled, and stared into Mariana’s eyes. ‘It means: “The gods have willed your death – and soon, from your throat, streams of blood shall gush forth at the sword.”’

As Mariana heard this, her anger erupted – the bubble of burning fury burst forth, and her hands clenched into fists. With all of her strength, she struck him in the face.

Fosca reeled backwards. ‘Jesus—’

But before he could catch his breath, Mariana punched him again. And again.

He raised his hands to protect himself – but she kept hitting him, pummelling him with her fists, shouting, ‘You bastard – you sick bastard—’

‘Mariana – stop! Stop—’

But Mariana couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop – until she felt a pair of hands grab her from behind, pulling her back.

A police officer held on to her, forcibly restraining her.

A crowd of onlookers was gathering. Julian was there, staring at her in disbelief.

Another officer went over to assist Fosca – but the professor waved him away angrily. Fosca’s nose was bleeding – blood was spattered all over his crisp white shirt. He looked upset and embarrassed. It was the first time Mariana had seen him lose his cool, and she drew some small satisfaction from that.

Chief Inspector Sangha appeared. He stared at Mariana, stunned – as if he were looking at a crazy person.

‘What the hell is going on?’

21

Soon afterwards, Mariana found herself in the dean’s office, and was asked to explain her actions. She sat across the desk from Chief Inspector Sangha, Julian, the dean – and Edward Fosca.

It was hard to find the right words. The more she said, the more she sensed she was being disbelieved. Telling her story, saying it all aloud, she was aware how implausible it sounded.

Edward Fosca had regained his composure; he kept smiling at her the whole time – as if she were telling a long joke and he were anticipating the punchline.

Mariana had also calmed down, and was making an effort to remain calm. She presented the narrative as simply and clearly as she could, with as little emotion as possible. She explained how, step by step, she had arrived at this incredible deduction – that the professor had murdered three of his students.

The Maidens first made her suspicious, she said. A group of favourites, all young women. No one knew what went on at these meetings. And as a group therapist, and a woman, Mariana could scarcely fail to be concerned. Professor Fosca had a kind of strange, guru-like control over his pupils, Mariana said. She had witnessed this first-hand – even her own niece had expressed a reticence to betray Fosca and the group.

‘This is typical of unhealthy group behaviour – an urge to conform and submit. Voicing opinions contrary to the group, or the group leader, evokes a great deal of anxiety – if they can be voiced at all. I felt it when Zoe spoke about the professor – something wasn’t quite right. I could feel she was afraid of him.’

Small groups like this, Mariana explained, like the Maidens, were particularly vulnerable to unconscious manipulation, or abuse. Unconsciously the girls might treat the leader of the group the way they treated their father when they were very young – with dependence and acquiescence. ‘And if you’re a damaged young woman,’ she went on, ‘in denial about your childhood and the suffering you endured – in order to maintain that denial, you might well collude with another abuser – and pretend to yourself that his behaviour is perfectly normal. If you were to open your eyes and condemn him, you would have to condemn others in your life also. I don’t know what the childhoods of those girls were like. It’s easy to dismiss Tara as a privileged young woman with no problems. But to me, her abuse of alcohol and drugs suggests she was troubled – and vulnerable. Beautiful, fucked-up Tara – she was his favourite.’

She maintained eye contact with Fosca as she said this, aware of the rising anger in her voice and doing her best to control it. Fosca stared back at her coolly, a smile on his face. She went on, trying to stay calm.