Mark Latto stopped and looked up at the white-painted wooden house on West Cliff Drive. There are many houses like this along the coast of California, many houses like this in Santa Cruz. But this one was different: there was a police car parked on the road outside. A police car outside a house doesn't always mean there's trouble inside, but Latto felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Something wasn't right. He walked towards the front door. As he did so, it was opened by a mountain of man, at least two meters tall, almost as wide as the door, and wearing the dark blue of the Santa Cruz Police. "Yes?" asked the police officer in a slow American voice.
"I'm here to see Deborah Spencer, began Latto."
"She's expecting me."
"And who are you?"
"My name's Mark Latto. I'm a doctor. I've come over from Britain to see her.?"
"Well, you'd better come in, Dr. Latto, said the police officer, stepping back from the door to let Latto in.
"I'm afraid I've get some bad news for you. Ms. Spencer was found dead early this morning."
"Oh no!" Latto put a hand up his mouth.
" How terrible!"
" Yes," continued the police officer, " I 'm agpfraid you won't get to see her. However, a detective will be along here in a few minutes and he may want to have a talk with you."
"Detective?" asked Latto. 'Are you saying...?