The image wasn't perfect, he realised. This was a Philip Evans he hadn't seen before, flesh firmer, skin-colour salubrious. Stronger. Younger by about a decade.

"OK. Are you in any danger right now?" At some aloof level, he marvelled at his own reaction. Treating it as just another prosaic problem. Spoke volumes for Army training.

"Not from anything physical. The manor is well protected."

Physical. So what was a ghost afraid of anyway, being exorcised? Should he stop off to buy a clove of garlic, a crucifix, a grimoire? "I'm on my way."

He pulled on his one decent suit, barking a shin on that idiotically oversized bed in the scramble to shove his feet into a pair of black leather shoes. Thought about taking the Walther, and decided against.

The Duo bounced along the estate's gravel track and lurched on to the road. He set off towards Wilholm Manor coaxing a full fifty-five kilometres per hour from the engine, rocking slowly in the seat. The Duo had thick balloon-type tyres, made out of a hard-wearing silicon rubber. They were designed to cope with the country's shambolic road surfaces without being torn to ribbons. A typical PSP fix, he thought, adapting the cars to cope with their failure to maintain the roads.

There was a white watchman pillar standing outside Wilholm's odd cattle grid. He wound the side window down, and showed his card to it.

"Your visit has been authorised, Mr. Mandel," a construct voice said. "Please do not deviate from the road. Thank you."

The manor's spread of ornate flora was in full bloom, a spectacular moiré patchwork of sharp, primary colours. Big jets of water were spurting across the parched lawns. He could see the two gardeners working away amongst the rose beds. They leant on their hoes to watch him walk up to the front doors. However did that idle pair manage to keep the grounds in such a trim condition?

The butler opened the door. Morgan Walshaw stood behind him, his face drawn. A quick check of his mind showed Greg he was labouring under a prodigious quantity of anxiety.

"Mandel." Morgan Walshaw greeted him with a curt nod. "This way." A stiff finger beckoned. Greg followed him up the big curving staircase. The butler shut the doors silently behind them as they ascended.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asked the security chief in a low tone. "Did he fake his death, or what?"

Walshaw's face twisted into a grimace. "Explanations in a moment. Just ride it out, OK?"

They arrived at the study and Walshaw opened the door, giving Greg a semi-apologetic shrug as they went in.

The interior was almost the same as it had been on his last visit. Big table running down the middle, stone fireplace, dark panelling, warm sunlight streaming through small lead-lined panes of glass, dust motes sparkling in the beams.