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impatience.

'That's true. We went out for a drink last night.' I told them all about the previous night. The constable took copious notes. The questioning became closer when I got to the man who had accosted Debbie and disappeared into the night. I answered well under pressure, giving a pretty accurate description, and said I would spend some time with a police artist if necessary. Then Powell's questions changed tack.

'Mr McKenzie said that you were the closest to Miss Chater?'

'Yes, I suppose that that is correct.'

'Would you say that Miss Chater was depressed lately?' he asked.

'No, not really.'

'No problems with boyfriends?'

'None that she told me about.'

'Any problems at work?'

I hesitated. 'No, not really.'

'None at all?' Powell looked me straight in the eye. He had caught my hesitation.

'Well, she was a little upset recently.' I told him about Debbie's disagreements with Hamilton and her conversation with me in Finsbury Circus. 'But she wasn't nearly upset enough to commit suicide,' I said.

'It's always difficult to tell that, sir,' said Powell. 'It's surprising how often apparently stable people take their own life because of something that friends or relatives think of as trivial.'

'No, you don't understand,' I said. 'She was never depressed. In fact, she was always having a laugh. She enjoyed life.'

Powell looked as though he only half heard this. He nodded to his colleague, who closed his notebook, and then said, 'Thank you for your time, Mr Murray. You will of course be available should we have any more questions?'

I nodded, and with that the two policemen left.

I struggled through the day somehow. At about six, I turned off the machines and went home.

As I was waiting at the lift, I was joined by Hamilton. There was an awkward silence. Small-talk with Hamilton was tough at the best of times. In the present circumstances, I did not have the energy to think of anything bright or interesting to say.

Eventually the lift came and we both got in. As the lift descended, Hamilton spoke. 'What are you doing now, Paul?'

'Nothing. Going home,' I said.

'Do you want to stop in for a drink at my place on the way back?' Hamilton asked.

I didn't answer at first. I was amazed by the invitation. It was completely unlike Hamilton to invite anyone to do anything socially. A half-hour of difficult conversation with Hamilton was the last thing I felt like right then, but I couldn't refuse.

'That's very kind of you,' I said.

Hamilton lived in one of the grey-streaked concrete towers of the Barbican, which guard the northern approaches to the City. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from the office, which we spent almost in silence as we dodged through traffic and commuters. The Barbican is a maze of concrete walkways and towers, which wind round the old walls and churches of the City at about twenty feet above street level. It is so disorienting that yellow lines painted on the walkway guide you to various places you may or may not want to go. A soulless place to live.

We eventually came to Hamilton's tower and took a lift to the top floor. His flat was small and convenient. Expensive, but unremarkable furniture provided most of the functions that someone needs, to live, but little more. The only pictures were a set of nineteenth-century prints of the abbeys of Scotland. Walls have to have pictures, but it would be difficult to find any greyer than these. I looked curiously through an open door where I could just see a desk.

'That's my study,' said Hamilton. 'Let me show you.'

We went into the next room. There was indeed a desk facing the window. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves and filing cabinets. Thousands of books and papers were held in that small room. It was a bit like a don's room at a university, except that it was perfectly tidy. Everything was in its place. The desk was completely bare except for a computer.

I scanned the shelves briefly. The titles of nearly all the books I saw had something to do with finance or economics. Many of them were written in the nineteenth century. There was one set of shelves which aroused my interest. It held titles such as Gleick's Chaos Theory, Rude's The Crowd in History and even Darwin's On the Origin of Species. There were works on psychology, physics, religion and linguistics.

Hamilton drew up beside me. 'You should read some of these. It would help you understand our job better.'

I looked at him, puzzled.

'Markets are about movement of prices, about groups of people interacting, about competition, about information, about fear, greed, belief,' he went on. 'All these things are studied in detail by a range of academic disciplines, each of which can give you an insight into why the market behaves the way it does.'

'Oh, I see,' I said. Now I understood. In Hamilton's world the great scholars of matter and the mind had made a significant contribution to financial theory. They did have some use after all.

I pulled out The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli. 'And this?' I said showing it to Hamilton.

He smiled. 'Oh, Machiavelli understood power. That book is all about power and how to use it. And so are the financial markets. Money is power, information is power, and analytical ability is power.'

'But doesn't he write about how to become a ruthless dictator?'

'Oh no, that's much too simplistic. Certainly, he believes the means justifies the ends. But although a successful prince will do whatever is required to achieve his goal, he will always maintain the semblance of virtue. That is vital.'

I looked puzzled.

Hamilton laughed. 'In the markets that means be smart, be imaginative, but at all costs keep your reputation. Remember that.'

'I will,' I said, putting the book back on its shelf.

'I like this room,' Hamilton said, relaxed. 'I spend most of my time here. Look at that view.'

It was indeed a remarkable view, looking out over the offices of the City from St Paul's to the East End. De Jong's offices were clearly distinguishable. A source of inspiration for Hamilton whenever he was bogged down in his studies of the markets.

We went back into the living room. 'Scotch?' he asked.

'Yes, please.'

He splashed generous portions into two glasses and added a small amount of water to each. He handed me one and we both sat down.

After a moment's appreciation of his drink, Hamilton asked, 'Do you think she committed suicide?' He studied my face closely.

I sighed. 'No,' I said. 'No matter what the police said, Debbie would never do anything like that.'

'She was concerned about her job, though, wasn't she?' said Hamilton. 'I don't know whether she told you, but we did have a slightly difficult discussion about her future not long before she died.'

'Yes, I know,' I said. 'She did tell me about that conversation and it did upset her for a bit. But she soon forgot it. She was not the kind of person who would allow a little thing like work get in the way of her enjoying life. I am quite sure that is not the reason she died.'

Hamilton relaxed. 'No, suicide doesn't seem like her at all,' he said. 'It must have been an accident.'

There was silence for a moment.

'I'm not so sure,' I said.

'What do you mean?'

'I saw someone just before she died.'

'Saw someone? Who?'

'I don't know who it was. It's probably someone who works in the City. Thin. Mid-thirties. Very fit. Mean-