“Number one,” he said after a while. Fowler had sat in absolute silence, not distracting him in the least except by existing, a dark masculine presence in the corner of his eye. “I can’t see anything much here. I think this is a woman, and she feels a little nervous as she’s writing. It’s a hugely conscientious hand, rather joyless. Dutiful. I don’t know if she’s much fun to be around, but absolutely nothing in this gives me the sense of someone who’d commit a serious crime: I’m not sure she’d lower herself to shoplifting, even. This was written after the crime, yes?”

“All of them were written afterwards.”

“I think, if she had done a bad thing, the thought would be overwhelming, even if she felt justified in it. She’d fret. I don’t see anything like that.”

Fowler was scribbling. “Is that it?”

“Yes, I think so. I am rather assuming this crime is big enough to make an impact, by the way.”

“It’s an ongoing investigation of a serious matter. Not shoplifting.”

“Good. All right, number two.” He let himself sink into the hand. “Well, he’s none too bright, is he? Deeply unimaginative, no empathy. I can’t imagine he’s much fun to work for. I’d guess he shouts a lot, he feels like a bully. Would I expect criminal behaviour? Oof. I think if you put him into the army he’d be a perfectly good soldier, and if you put him into a gang of racecourse terrorists he’d be good at that too. I don’t get any sense of guilt or fear here, but I don’t know if that’s because he’s done nothing wrong, or if he has but he doesn’t particularly think about it. He probably just goes along whatever path he’s on, like a wind-up toy. If I had to sum him up in two words, it would be No insight. Which, I have to tell you, makes him a blasted bad fit for this sort of test because if he doesn’t feel anything, I’m not going to feel it off him.”

Fowler took it all down without comment. Joel waited for him to finish. He was feeling a lot more nervous now.