‘Maybe she knows of another victim of Seed’s, somebody else he’s attacked or killed, even if he hasn’t touched her.’ Simon wiped the back of his neck with his hand. He was sweating. ‘What about the question Seed asked me: “The woman you met at 15 Megson Crescent—did you tell her what I’m saying I did?” Did you read that bit?’

‘I read all the bits. Top left to bottom right. I know how to read.’

‘According to Seed, Mary Trelease is dead—he killed her. What does he care what I told or didn’t tell a supposedly dead woman? Sir, if you met him . . . He’s like a man possessed. He was super-rational, as if by using logic he could persuade me. Kept saying, “If I start with the one thing I know beyond all doubt, which is that I killed Mary Trelease, then I infer that what you’re telling me about her being alive and unharmed can’t be true.” Read it!’ Simon picked up papers from Proust’s desk and dropped them again, looking for the notes he’d brought in with him. He couldn’t find them. He knew Seed’s words by heart, anyway.

‘ “The only other explanation is that I killed someone who later came back to life, and who’s the woman you met. Since I don’t believe in the supernatural, I can’t believe in that as a possibility.” Does any of that sound normal or natural to you?’ Simon demanded. ‘Someone’s going to get hurt, sir, if they haven’t already. I’ve got a really bad feeling about it.’

The Snowman sighed. ‘All right, Waterhouse. You set out to wear me down and you’ve succeeded. Take statements from the whole motley bunch if it makes you happy.’

Was Simon dreaming? Could it be that easy? Proust made a series of huffing noises and straightened the piles of paper on his desk. Watching him reconsider his position on an issue, however small, was like watching a super-tanker gearing up to change course.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Nancy Beddoes comes first, though.’ There was always going to be a catch. ‘Dull though it is, we have to give priority to the crimes we know exist.’ The inspector looked up. ‘Which means Aidan Seed et al. will have to wait until you’ve completed your grand tour of the UK and all two hundred and seventy-six statements are in.’

‘But, sir . . .’

‘But sir nothing. Do you own a road atlas?’ Proust reached into the pocket of the jacket that was draped over his chair and pulled out a ten-pound note. ‘Buy one.’ He threw the money at Simon. ‘It’s about time you learned that some maps go over the page.’

Ruth Bussey’s front door stood wide open. The black VW Passat—the one she’d made her escape in on Friday—wasn’t there, but there was a green Daewoo parked on a grass verge outside the lodge house, so someone was in. Aidan Seed?

Charlie moved out of the way as two jogging women appeared, chatting as they ran between the bollards at the park gates and up the path, past the lodge. With Ruth’s coat draped over her arm, Charlie walked towards the house. She’d been hoping to have another chat with Ruth, but perhaps it was better this way, since Charlie was also curious to meet Aidan, see what sort of man confesses to a murder that neither he nor anyone else has committed.