‘No, sir.’ Kombothekra took a step back. The brave stand was over, then.

‘I’ve heard as much as I want to about Aidan Seed, and seen more than I want to of your pathetically expectant faces. I’m sorry Santa didn’t bring you both what you wanted, but there’s only so much tat you can force down one reasonable chimney. Are we clear?’ Proust stopped, red in the face.

Reasonable chimney? Was he talking about himself? The Snowman had trouble recognising his opinions as opinions, had for as long as Simon had known him. He regarded himself as the embodiment of universal truth. It wouldn’t for a moment have occurred to him, in constructing his metaphor, that he was closer to being a chimney than he was to being reasonable.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kombothekra, who would probably have been bowing by now if Simon hadn’t been there.

‘Good. Now get out there and do your perishing jobs.’

Kombothekra made a run for it, no doubt assuming Simon was close behind. Once the sergeant had gone, Simon pushed the door shut.

‘You’re still here, Waterhouse.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Since you’ve gone to the trouble of securing this private moment for us, might I beg a favour? Would you mind asking Sergeant Kombothekra to address you as DC Waterhouse instead of Simon? I’ve asked him several times, but he persists in his use of first names. The other day he told me he’d prefer it if I called him Sam.’ Proust compressed his thin lips. ‘I said, “When two people are as close as you and I are, Sam, they invariably have pet names for one another. My pet name for you is Sergeant Kombothekra.” ’

‘You’re wrong about Aidan Seed,’ Simon told him. ‘I know no crime’s been committed yet, but Sergeant Zailer and I both think something’s going to happen. That’s why we need to take statements now. There are protection issues here—we can’t ignore our concerns. You read Gibbs’ notes: he said Mary Trelease looked scared when he first mentioned Seed. Sergeant Zailer was left in no doubt that Ruth Bussey was terrified of something, she wouldn’t say what.’

‘Yet she didn’t follow it up,’ said Proust impatiently.

‘Bussey left her coat behind. Sergeant Zailer found an article about herself in the pocket. It was from the local rag, dated 2006. It was about her . . . when she . . .’

‘Say it in plain English: Sergeant Zailer’s catastrophic error of yesteryear. Not to be confused with her more recent catastrophic error: agreeing to marry you, Waterhouse. Go on.’

‘Bussey had an article about it in her pocket. Once Sergeant Zailer saw that, and put it together with Bussey’s unlikely story that was full of gaps . . . well, she thought the whole thing was some sort of ploy.’ Simon knew this aspect of things would do nothing for his cause.

‘What?’ Proust frowned so hard, his forehead looked like an accordion.

‘She’s embarrassed about it now, sir, but she still gets really upset and paranoid at any mention of all that. She thought Ruth Bussey was some kind of investigative journalist, undercover—you know those programmes where they target someone they think ought to be sacked, and set traps for them? She thought she might end up on Panorama . . .’