They strolled back to the gate, unhurried, unconcerned. Greg showed his Event Horizon card to the post, using his little finger for activation. The gate's electric bolt thudded, and the servos swung it back.

It remained open behind them, its control circuitry bleached clean. He sent a mental note of thanks to Royan.

The mossy gravel drive crunched under their feet. O'Donal's house was a large one, three storeys of dull russet brick with inset stone windows, the slates on the mansard roof a peculiar olive-green. Nobody had bothered with the front garden for years, the grass was tangled and overgrown, and dead cherry trees were still standing. Some sort of stone ornament, a birdbath or a sundial poked up through a tumble of Cornflowers. A brand-new scarlet BMW convertible was parked in front of the triple garage.

"The man that answers the door is a minder, he'll make trouble if you let him," Gabriel said. "Take him out straight away."

"Right." He rang the bell. Music and laughter wafted over the roof.

Greg saw him coming through the smoked-glass pane set into the grimy hardwood door, an obscure blotch of brown motion, swelling to cloud the whole rectangle.

The door was pulled open.

"Hello, sorry we're late."

The man behind the door was street muscle in a suit; early twenties, tall, stringy, dark hair, broad forehead crinkling into a frown.

Greg stepped forward neatly, one foot on the mat the other coming up, further and further. Fast. It was victory through surprise. A smiling man and a portly spinster eager to party just didn't register as a threat. Not until the carbon-mesh-reinforced toe of Greg's desert boot smashed into his kneecap.

His mouth opened to suck in air, eyes wide with shock. He was toppling forwards, leg giving way, and bending to clutch desperately at his shattered knee.

Greg brought his fist straight up, catching the minder's chin as he was on his way down. The force of the blow snapped his head back, lifting him off his feet, back arching, arms and legs flung wide.

He crashed back on to the shiny blue ceramic tiling, skull making a nasty cracking sound, a thin stream of pea-green vomit sloshing from his slack mouth.

Greg took in the dark hall behind him with a quick glance, espersense wide for alarmed minds. Big tasteless urns holding willowy arrangements of dried pampas grass making the most impression. But the hall was empty. Nobody had witnessed their arrival.

"Jesus, Greg." Gabriel was kneeling beside the prone minder, feeling for a pulse.

Greg opened the cloakroom door. "In here." There was a wicker dog-basket on the floor, jackets were piled high on a washbasin; it smelt of urine and detergent. "Come on!"

Gabriel shot him a filthy look, but took hold of the minder's left arm as Greg grabbed the right. They pulled him across the tiles.

"If he was going to die you'd have told me not to hit so hard."