“Is there anything else you can tell me, Miss Carson, which might help in the investigation?”

“If there were, Superintendent, I should already have told you.”

In the common room Paul Derbyshire looked at his watch. There was no sense of tension or drama now. The wait was just tedious. They could have been going to see the dentist. It was half past two. He thought: What will she be doing now? Where is she now? and he played the old game of conjuring a scene in which he and she were the only actors, a scene of subtlety and tenderness and beauty. He imagined that they were together in a wood in late spring. She was collecting bluebells, armfuls of bluebells to bring for him. Then she sat beside him and began to confide in him, telling him her secrets. Her long hair, white as silver, brushed against his cheek. Then, in the stillness and the shadow, she held his hand. He was not mad. He did not confuse fantasy and reality. He knew that this had never happened and that it never would. But, he told himself, he needed the dream of an innocent beauty to protect him from the pressures, the niggling stresses, which even after retirement continued to depress him. He needed the dream as he needed Gillibry. Now, with Charlie’s death, both were safe again.

When Connibear came in he half rose, expecting to be called next for interview. He was not anxious about the interview, because he did not confuse fantasy and reality, and Savage had no means of knowing about his dreams. But Connibear called Jerry Packham, and the doctor looked at his watch again and settled back to wait.

Savage waited, with interest, for Jerry Packham. He had not noticed him in any detail at the first meeting, and he was interested to meet Pamela Marshall’s lover. The policeman was surprised, even a little disappointed. This was no sophisticated artist. He had sandy, curly hair and a beard, thick red fingers. He could have been a bricklayer. Savage watched him walk into the room, sit on the wooden chair at the other side of the desk. All the furniture in the room looked as if it belonged in a classroom. Perhaps it had been donated by the Education Department. The man looked as nervous and uncomfortable as if he had been summoned to the headmaster’s room. Then he asked if he could smoke, and lit a cigarette.

Savage waited while Connibear brought an ashtray. There was no view from the ringing-room window. It looked out to the stone wall of the generator shed. They were even sheltered on that side of the house from the noise of the wind. It was like any other interview room. It would have made no difference to Savage if there had been a view. He was beyond distraction.

“What did you want to discuss with Mr. Todd?” Savage asked gently. “Why was privacy so important?”

He had assumed an understated, self-effacing style. Connibear had never seen him work like that before and was impressed by the change in technique. He’s showing off, Connibear thought. He’s enjoying every minute of it. He wants to prove that he’s not lost his touch.