'Right,' the Doctor snapped as he entered the room, slapping his hands together. 'Which one of you is Furness?'

Through an open door on the other side of the room, the Doctor could see that it was immediately behind the main Auction Room where he had been earlier. It was a room perhaps fifteen feet square, with racks of shelves and display cases. It seemed to be where the things to be auctioned off were stored immediately prior to their sale. There seemed to be something wrong with the room, something askew. But he couldn't decide what it was.

'I am.' Furness turned out to be a small woman with a shrewlike face. She was dressed in a dark trouser suit.

'Excellent,' the Doctor said before she could start asking the obvious questions. 'You've done an excellent job so far. Well done. Now then, what's the situation?'

He could see for himself that there were two ambulance men lifting another man on to a stretcher. The man's eyes were wide and staring, his face somehow lopsided. His features were wrinkled like a prune and his whole body seemed emaciated.

Behind the stretcher stood another man the auctioneer. He seemed almost relieved to see the Doctor again.

Furness sighed. She gestured at the auctioneer. 'Mr Gilbertson heard a scream. Found the body. There's another man, Henry Jackson, who's missing apparently.' The way she said 'missing' implied she knew already what had happened.

'So, your working hypothesis is that Henry Jackson murdered this man and then went missing?'

'Too early to tell, sir.' That was exactly what she thought.

Mr Gilbertson the auctioneer was shaking his head in agitation. 'But that can't be right,' he said. 'Not right at all.'

The Doctor stooped to examine the body, the ambulance men allowing him room. 'And why is that?' he asked.

'Well...' Gilbertson seemed stumped for an opinion now that someone had actually asked him for one. 'You don't know Henry Jackson,' he said at last. 'He wouldn't hurt a fly.'

Furness laughed. There was precious little mirth in the sound. 'We're not talking about a fly.'

'No,' the. Doctor agreed. 'No, we're not.' He straightened up. 'But I think Mr Gilbertson is right.'

'Oh?'

. 'Unless Henry Jackson was somehow able to scramble this man's internal organs.' He nodded at the corpse. 'The heart and lungs, liver and kidneys, all jumbled up together, twisted and torn out of place. A ma.s.sive disruption. You have a feel.'

'No, thank you.'

'Who is this man anyway?' the Doctor asked.

'Well, it's Oliver Thomas. Only...'

'Only what?' the Doctor asked gently.

'Only, he's not that old.' Gilbertson swallowed. 'I've been trying to tell them, sir, I'm sure it's Thomas. But it looks more like his father. Thomas is only thirty, if that. And this...' He could barely bring himself to look down at the body on the stretcher.

'This man looks sixty or more,' the Doctor agreed.

They carried the body out and the Doctor made to close the door behind them.

'It doesn't shut,' Furness told him shortly. She was right, the door caught the edge of the frame at the top. It was a good inch out. 'Nor does that one,' she said, pointing to the door into the Auction Room.

'Really?' The Doctor went over to it. 'It was shut a couple of hours ago.'

'They both were,' Gilbertson said. 'I don't understand it.' He slumped against one of the racks of shelves. 'I don't understand any of this.'

'Well that's a healthy att.i.tude at any rate,' the Doctor said. Sure enough, the other door didn't shut either. He looked up at the ceiling, squinting, framing it with his hands. 'And the ceiling isn't square. He dropped to his knees and lowered his head to the ground. 'The floor s not level either. Look, it dips right down in the middle there.'

'Where the body was,' Furness told him. 'So what? It's an old building.'

'Are you sure, sir?' Gilbertson was getting more and more agitated. 'I'm sure I'd have noticed, someone would have noticed. And the doors they used to close. Even this morning.'

The Doctor had seen something across the room while he was knelt down. 'That's what we need. Allow me to demonstrate.'

It was a black stone. A large pebble, on the floor beside one of the shelves, round enough to roll into the hollow and make the point. The Doctor bent to pick it up, but his fingers slipped over the surface. 'How curious,' he murmured. 'What is this?'.

'I don't know. Never seen it before.'

'Is it important?' Furness asked with a tone of deliberate fatigue.

'Unlikely to be fixed down then.' The Doctor straightened up. 'Yes, I think it is important.' He clicked his tongue. '"A pebble, or stone,"' he quoted. '"It was black, about the size of a golf ball."'

'Sorry?'

'Nothing,' the Doctor said. 'Just something I read somewhere. Which reminds me...' He turned to Gilbertson. 'Where is the Hanson Galloway expedition journal?' he asked.

Furness was shaking her head, perplexed. But Gilbertson was almost smiling. 'Now that I can tell you, sir. It hasn't been stolen, if that's what you're thinking.'

'It did cross my mind,' the Doctor admitted.

'No, the buyer collected it an hour ago. Just before all this... unpleasantness.'

'In person?' the Doctor demanded. 'You saw him?'

'Oh yes.'

'Then who was it that bought the journal?' the Doctor asked.

Gilbertson gulped. 'Well, that is of course strictly confidential.'

'And this is of course a murder investigation,' the Doctor shot back. 'Under these very special circ.u.mstances, I think client confidentiality can be stretched just a little. Don't you?'

Perhaps glad that something was happening at last which she understood, Furness took a threatening step towards Gilbertson. 'Curtis,' he stammered. 'Maxwell Curtis, the millionaire.'

'Never heard of him,' Furness said, not taking her eyes off Gilbertson.

'Neither have I,' the Doctor admitted. 'Keep up the excellent work, Furness. I'll put a good word in for you.'

'Just for the record, sir,' Furness said, turning away from the nervous auctioneer, 'could I ask your name...?'

But the Doctor had gone.

When she got back from the coffee machine, there was someone sitting in Anji's chair.

In the eighteen months, since she had returned to work, she had been 'fast*tracked' through the company's ranks and now had her own very successful portfolio of clients. Several of the most prestigious of the company's clients relied on Anji's judgement, in fact. She was doing well, and perhaps the only work*related disappointment that she had suffered in recent months was that Mitch had moved to a company in Edinburgh. They had got horribly drunk the night he left, and she had an open invitation to drop by and 'see how they do things in the frozen North'.

In the time she had been back, Anji had not had a major calamity, not lost any client money month*on*month, tried never to think about the Doctor or Fitz or Dave (and almost succeeded), and had never ever come back from the coffee machine to find someone else in her seat.

She reached over the man's shoulder and set down the styrene cup between her keyboard and the phone, ready to let loose with what she thought about the situation. 'Are you lost?' was probably a good opening gambit, delivered in a stern, ironic tone.

But she never said it. The man turned. 'Oh,' she said. 'h.e.l.lo Larry.'

Senior Partner Larry Withers smiled back tightly. 'Anji, I was looking for you.'

'I was just getting a coffee.' She shifted uncomfortably, putting her weight on the other foot. 'Something wrong?'

'Not at all.' Her boss was on his feet, heading back towards his gla.s.sed office.

'Bring it with you.'

'Sorry, bring what?' Had she forgotten a meeting? He seemed in a hurry. But then Larry was always in a hurry.

'Your coffee, of course.'

She took a pad as well, and a pen... There was a large man waiting for her with Larry in his office. Anji got the impression that he had been watching her the whole way from her desk. He was perhaps in his late fifties, with hair that was almost but not quite entirely grey. His suit was straining at the shoulders as he thrust out a beefy hand, and she had to juggle coffee, pad and pen in order to take it.

'I'm Anji Kapoor,' she said. That seemed safe enough.

As she spoke the man's watch bleeped. He smiled an apology and pressed surprisingly dexterously at a b.u.t.ton on the side. It was a complicated watch one of those with several clock faces on the dial, and a metal ring that could be rotated round the edge.

'Sorry about that. Time*keeping is an especial interest of mine.' His accent was cultured American. East coast, she thought vaguely. Washington DC maybe. The man let her sit down. Larry, she noticed, waited for the big man before he too sat down at the circular table at the side of the office.

'Alexander Hartford,' he introduced himself. 'Call me Alex.'

Anji saw Larry blink, in the sort of way that implied he was not allowed to call the man 'Alex'. Sure enough, he said: 'Anji, Mr Hartford represents one of our most important clients.' He emphasised 'most.'. He was perspiring not much, but enough to let Anji know that this statement was most definitely true.

'And that is?' she asked.

Larry was about to answer, but Hartford waved him to silence. 'You won't have heard of us. Hartford*Waverly is an accounting and auditing company. We're US*based, as you may have guessed, but we operate worldwide.' He smiled, perfectly*capped teeth glinting III the fluorescent light. 'And I don't just mean the UK and the Eurozone.'

Anji gave what she hoped was a polite 'interesting, but so what' smile and nodded. 'You're right, I've never heard of Hartford*Waverly.'

'Mr Hartford has asked especially for you to be a.s.signed to his company for a particular job,' Larry said.

Hartford stared at him. There was no discernible change in his expression, but it was somehow threatening.

'I'm not an auditor,' Anji said. 'Or an accountant.'

'Good,' Hartford told her. 'Because we have more than enough of each of those. What we're interested in is someone who can bring an a.n.a.lytical approach to the table. Who can spot trends and make predictions. Who can a.s.sess the situation based on limited data and provide a set of conclusions that are extrapolated from that data rather than an emotional response or a gut reaction.'

Anji wasn't quite sure what to make of that. She went to make a note on her pad, but decided against it. What would she write? 'And Larry told you I was the best person for the job?' she asked. Thanks, Larry, she thought. More work just what I need.

'No,' Hartford said. 'I told him that you were the best person for the job.' He leaned forward, ma.s.sive hands laced together on the tabletop. 'In fact, I think you're unique.'

He seemed completely serious, otherwise she would have laughed. Larry was talking again now. 'You will be a.s.signed to Mr Hartford for three months initially. I have agreed with Josh and Graeme that they'll take over your portfolio for the duration.'

'You mean it's a full*time a.s.signment?' She was bristling, already concerned about the mess she'd come back to. She'd have to nurse Graeme through the transactions, and Josh was a law unto himself. She had to warn her clients not to trust him without double*checking with her. There were some long evenings ahead.

'We're running a detailed a.s.sessment of some work being done at a scientific inst.i.tute,' Hartford said. 'You'll be working with us. There. On site.'

'On site?' Anji frowned. That rather scuppered things. And she could not recall anyone being sent away to join a client's team for anything longer than a few days at most. 'For three months?'

'That's right,' Larry told her. 'Initially.' He coughed, embarra.s.sed. 'If you could clear your desk this afternoon.'

'You're taking my desk?' What did 'initially' mean didn't he expect her back? Was she being head*hunted in some strange way?

'We leave tomorrow,' Hartford said. He handed her a large envelope that had somehow been inside his jacket pocket. 'Flight details are in here.'

'Tickets?' she asked automatically.

'You won't need tickets for this flight. Just mention my name.'

She took the envelope, and as she did so she could feel her stomach dropping away. Excitement? Or apprehension?

'And where are we going?' she asked. 'Where is this scientific inst.i.tute?'

Hartford was shaking hands with Larry, taking a heavy overcoat from the hook on the back of the door. He turned to answer her as he left. 'It's in Siberia,' he said.

37: View through a Window

It was Price who insisted on solemnly saying a few words over the pile of stones. They all stood round, heads bowed as he recited the Lord's Prayer, then each of them placed a final small stone on the heap before moving away.

The old guide, Chedakin, watched with apparent interest but made no effort to join in. He had not asked about the events of the previous night, though he did seem to be uneasy. As they started off he indicated the best route through the increasingly uneven ground, and then dropped back to speak quietly to Graul.

What Fitz had imagined were the foothills were looming ever larger as they approached, and he could tell that even these would be a struggle to climb. 'How the h.e.l.l do we get the dogs and the sled up there?' he asked George.

George shook his head. 'I suppose we shall have to leave the sled. Maybe the dogs too.'

Graul joined them, gesturing for Caversham to come over as well and the group slowed to a stop. Chedakin continued to lead the dogs forward, Price staying with him, shouting encouragement to the animals. They seemed, Fitz had noticed, to respect the large man.

'What is it?' Caversham demanded. 'Is he after more money or something?'

'No,' Graul said. 'I asked him that. He says just that he will not go on.'

'What?'