In the third bedroom, among some correspondence, was a bill for a new tyre from the local Mini dealership. This must be Cicero’s room, though it was bare of any personal touches: no other letters or cards, no photographs or pictures. In the wardrobe a solitary jacket hung from a hanger, pristine in a dry cleaner’s plastic cover. Above the clothes rail there was a high shelf, which Liz reached to explore. At first she felt nothing but dust, then her fingers touched something rough. She stood on tiptoe, reached in further and tugged, and a large coil of rope came sliding out, unravelling snake-like as it landed on the carpet.
‘What on earth is that doing there?’ asked Pearson.
‘I don’t know.’
The constable who was watching what was going on coughed. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m PC Willis. It was me that found that woman who used to work here. The one that hanged herself in her kitchen – Miss Girling. It’s just the same rope.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Liz. ‘All rope is much the same, isn’t it?’
‘No, ma’am. You see this is thicker than what you usually find. It’s more what you’d use as a tow-rope for a car or a boat. I remember thinking the old lady hadn’t taken any chances: you could have hung an ox from what she used.’
Liz turned to Pearson. ‘It makes sense, given what the pathologist’s told you. But why didn’t he get rid of it?’
‘He probably didn’t see the need. Thought he’d got away with it; thought no one would ever think it wasn’t suicide. Also, from the state of Sarnat’s office, it looks as if these three left in a hurry. If he was panicked about getting out of here, he probably forgot all about the rope.’
‘But why the sudden hurry anyway? It’s as if something – or someone – tipped them off that we were coming.’
‘Or else they just took fright when they couldn’t find Thomma?’
Liz pondered this. ‘Maybe. But Thomma had been gone for hours before these guys left – if the guard’s right that it was late last night. If they were that scared of what Thomma might say, they would have left immediately.’
Inspector Singh’s radio buzzed. ‘Go ahead, Walker,’ Singh said. He listened for a minute, then turned to Liz and Pearson. ‘Walker says the students are awake now. They say the last time they saw any member of staff was yesterday evening. Someone called Cicero came round to check on them.’
‘Right,’ interjected Pearson. ‘Tell Walker to keep them there for the time being. Tell them there are no lessons today. We’ll go over and speak to them once we’re done here.’
Liz turned to PC Willis. ‘Where’s this locked room you mentioned?’
Willis led them to the other end of the corridor and pointed; Pearson tried the handle and rattled the door. Like all the doors in the manor it was solid, heavy wood. Pearson shook his head. ‘We’ll need one of the locks team to get us in there.’
Willis asked, ‘Shall I have a go at breaking it down?’
‘Not yet. The security guard must know where the master keys are. Try him first.’
As Willis thudded off down the stairs, Inspector Singh’s radio came to life again. It was the team from the back of the house.
‘We have apprehended a male at the rear of the house. Claims he is a teacher and lives in the house. What do you want us to do with him?’
‘Bring him in,’ replied Singh. ‘Upstairs.’
Liz heard the sound of a door slam from the ground floor and heavy footsteps on the stairs. The steps grew closer and looking over the banisters she saw a slim young man in a black tracksuit climbing the stairs, followed by a large flak-jacketed policeman with a semi-automatic at the ready.
As the pair reached the landing, the young man stopped abruptly at the sight of the group standing there.
‘Who are you?’ asked Inspector Singh.
‘I think I know,’ said Liz. His photograph was back at the police station in her briefcase, along with a report sent by FBI agent Fitzpatrick several weeks earlier. And when they had questioned Thomma in Southwold the previous day, he had told them this man was here. He resembled Thomma but was slightly taller and physically more mature. ‘You’re Aziz, aren’t you?’ said Liz.
The man nodded, glancing nervously at his armed companion. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Inspector Singh.
Aziz pointed at the locked door. ‘That’s my room,’ he said simply.
‘Why’s it locked?’
He shrugged. ‘I like to get up early and go out for a run. I always lock my room.’
That would explain why the front door had been open, thought Liz. ‘What do you do here?’
‘I’m a teacher.’
Liz continued, ‘Originally from Syria, but then from Hamburg, and most recently from Vermont. Is that right?’
Aziz’s eyes widened. ‘How do you know so much about me?’
Liz ignored the question. ‘Where are the others? Sarnat, Cicero and Gottingen?’
Aziz hesitated, but only briefly. ‘They’ve gone; I heard them go. It was late last night.’
‘Where did they go?’ Pearson asked.
Aziz shrugged.
Liz said sharply, ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
Aziz stared at her; he looked confused. ‘Why would I?’
‘They brought you over here from Vermont. Surely you’ve been working closely with them.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Aziz, sounding stung. For all his seeming mildness, he spoke more sharply now. ‘I came because the Americans wouldn’t renew my visa. Things have changed over there. They no longer let people like me stay.’
‘And you just happened to end up here at Bartholomew Manor?’
‘No. Mr Sarnat called me. He said they knew from Mr Petersen that I had done good work in Burlington and I could help teach their students. He said the students were from the school I went to in Germany, so I would fit in. That I could be very useful, working on counter-cyber strategies. To help companies protect themselves. The university in Vermont helped me get permission to come here.’ His voice faltered slightly.
‘But that wasn’t really what they wanted you to do, was it?’
He was looking increasingly vulnerable. Liz went on, ‘You were brought here under false pretences, weren’t you? Just as you were in Vermont. These people don’t want you to help anybody; they want your expertise to make trouble, to subvert, to destroy.’
There was a long silence. Aziz looked close to tears. Finally, he said quietly, ‘I know. But I promise to God, I did not know that until I came here. I thought it was… legitimate. What could I do?’ he asked Liz, and his voice was imploring. ‘The Americans didn’t want me; I couldn’t go back to Germany. My home’ – and Liz realised he meant Syria – ‘is not a home any more. So I believed Mr Sarnat, and I came over. But soon I realised what was going on. At least I think I did.’
‘I think you were right,’ said Liz gently. ‘It does sound as though none of this is your fault. But did you know the others were going to leave?’
‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘But I knew something was up. They had a bonfire in the grounds at the back; they were burning papers, I think. I thought that was strange, so I went downstairs. That’s when I heard them talking and realised something was going on.’
‘Did you hear where they were going?’
‘No.’ He hesitated. ‘But it couldn’t have been far from here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I heard Mr Sarnat say they would take Cicero’s car. Cicero said it only had a quarter of a tank of petrol in it, but Mr Sarnat said that would be more than enough. He even laughed.’