“It proves nothing. If he was determined to kill himself, he would have resorted to anything. He could have bought the pills illegally. Maria Alexandrovna, this isn’t a book or some fantasy. I don’t know that there was a killer, that it was murder at all, because frankly, I have no idea how somebody would even have got into the house. And to kill—” he said, making a movement with his hands as though wringing a chicken’s neck “—this guy, you saw him yourself, he was huge, even if he was drunk or on sleeping pills, killing him would be no easy feat. No witnesses, no break-in, no sign of struggle. There’s no explaining any of this.”

“It takes no particular skill to break somebody’s neck. Just a sharp movement and proper application of force at an angle. Especially if you strangle them in their sleep.”

“Why their sleep?”

“The phenobarbital?”

“Maria Alexandrovna, stop this, this is absurd.”

The investigator’s face darkened. Maria pensively took a few more drags.

“All knowledge is absurd, Oleg Nikolayevich.”

“Where did you hear that, down at the knitting circle?”

“Albert Camus actually. What was the blood on the knife?”

“Male. Blood type A+.”

“Like mine”

“Like all your knitting circle buddies and Camus and a whole third of the planet.”

The investigator had grown weary of the conversation, but Maria took no notice of his sighing.

“Where did the blood come from? After all, there were no signs of a struggle. And how do you strangle a man with a knife in his hands?”

“He left it especially for you. Hah! I’m telling you, there was no murderer.”

“This isn’t a joke, Oleg Nikolayevich. Suffocation is not just the secondmost preferred method among suicides, it’s also a favourite of serial killers.”

“And jealous husbands.”

Maria’s phone rang. It was Andrei. She muted the phone and put it back in her purse.

“Oleg Nikolayevich, you’re a bright man. I’d hoped you would apply your wits to solving crimes, not silly remarks.”

The investigator put his empty glass on the ground and picked up the other. He dreamily looked at Maria’s dress.

“Ok, so you want some more deduction then?”

“Go for it.” Maria realised she wasn’t getting any more out of him.

“You only wear dresses to office parties? You don’t do the same for the opera or the theatre?”

“I don’t care for opera or theatre, as you know, Oleg Nikolayevich.”

“Sooo.” He rubbed his hands. “This dress was given to you last year by a lover. But you put it on again for the first time since then because he suddenly returned to your thoughts. And you’ve quarrelled with your husband.”

“Are you serious?” Maria laughed nervously.

The investigator nodded with satisfaction.

“This isn’t your style. You’re more comfortable in jeans, or a uniform, in white or blue, but not black. Yes, Maria Alexandrovna. It means you didn’t pick out the dress.”

“You said ‘last year.’”