‘Then why are we here? It was your idea.’

‘I thought Lund might be here. I was hoping to persuade him not to tell Milward that he and I aren’t screwing each other’s brains out, if she asks him. True, I’d have been wasting my time—Lund’d rather chew off his own scrotum than help me, but since I’ve sunk so low already today, I might as well go that bit further and beg a favour from a man who . . . looks like a buzzard.’ She covered her face with her hands. Her own voice was starting to grate on her tattered nerves. It was no fun, being on the wrong side of the table in an interview room. She felt as if she still was. The table and room had changed, but the vibes of condemnation were the same.

‘You should have told them the real reason you met Lund. Why didn’t you?’

‘What, tell them Ruth Bussey’s decided to make an exhibition of me and I ran to a lawyer for help only to hear that there’s fuck all I can do about it? I think I’ve had enough public humiliation for one lifetime, don’t you?’

Simon reached across the table, grabbed her wrist. ‘They’re investigating a murder, one of the sickest. Some things are more important than your pride.’

‘My what? You think I’m proud? Some detective you are.’ She didn’t pull her arm away. The angrier he got, the more remote from him she felt, as if his reactions had nothing to do with her.

He stood up. ‘I’m going to order a pizza. Are you sure you don’t want anything?’

‘I’ll have a taste of yours.’

‘Will you fuck. I’m starved.’

She listened as he ordered two pizza funghis. He should have said ‘pizzas funghi’. Simon was no linguist. She pointed out his mistake when he sat back down. ‘I got “two” right,’ he said. ‘That was the important part.’ He was feeling better, she could tell, though they’d resolved nothing. Because he’d ordered some food?

‘So. You’ve really never hung a picture? What else don’t I know about you?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Simon, we’re engaged!’

‘I know that.’

‘Christ, this is ridiculous! All right, then: where would you live, if you could live anywhere in the world?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’

‘Well, think.’

‘Are you serious? At the moment, all I can think about is a disfigured mouth with gold picture hooks for teeth. You think Mary Trelease killed Gemma Crowther, don’t you? Because Crowther had her picture, the one she gave Ruth Bussey. So, what: Bussey gave it to Seed who gave it to Crowther?’