THE MOMENT of trauma paralysing Spig O’Leary there on the step seemed longer than it was. He sprang down and knelt, one hand on Ashton’s wrist, clammy cold, no whisper of a pulse, the other ripping open his tie and collar, knowing it was useless, the way his head lolled, totally inert. He swallowed a sharp wave of nausea and closed his eyes for an instant to blot out the hideous, staring face, still contorted with terror and the incredible recognition of death as it came. The image of Anita Ashton, poised in harpy-like rigidity, was so seared on the retina of his mind that the loud, rasping sound behind him was without meaning until he heard her voice, ice-edged but crisply controlled.
“Is Dr. Parker there? Then find him at once, please. Ask him to come to the Ashtons’, out by the bridge,
