‘We know Tribbeck’s a liar – to her husband, with another man,’ said Simon. ‘But we’ve no reason to think she’s lied to us, whereas we know Faith Kendell did, so let’s work with what we’ve got and concentrate on her instead of making things up. We’re almost certain it’s Billy who’s been sending New Age stories to Sondra Halliday, and we know Faith Kendell was a client of Lane Baillie’s. Lane Baillie is in the habit of introducing her clients to New Age stories. Liam Sturridge, Drew Hopwood, Gabriel Kearns – they’ve no connection to Lane that we know of. Faith Kendell’s more likely to be Billy than any of—’ Simon broke off. ‘Than anyone,’ he concluded after a second or two, frowning.

‘Nobody here has argued that Kendell isn’t our most likely suspect, Waterhouse,’ said the Snowman. ‘You’re defensive for no reason, as usual.’

‘You accused me of having less brain activity than a dead woman,’ Simon reminded him.

Proust turned to Sam. ‘That fake phone number Kendell gave to Lane Baillie – contact service providers. Find out if it ever belonged to anyone.’

‘Already underway,’ said Sellers.

‘You were going to say “than any of the men”, weren’t you?’ Gibbs grinned at Simon. ‘Faith Kendell’s more likely to be Billy than any of the men?’

‘What if I was?’

‘Nothing. Pointing it out, that’s all.’

‘I didn’t say it, did I?’

‘All right, keep your pin in.’

If Simon was more of a sexist than he’d been previously, it was Sondra Halliday’s fault. Never before on a murder case had he so ardently hoped the killer would turn out to be a woman.

Sergeant Robbie Meakin of Spilling Police knew his obsession with PC Iain Chanter wasn’t doing him any good. These days he seemed to spend more time watching Chanter on the sly than doing his own work. He wondered if his antipathy was anything to do with his recent promotion from constable to sergeant. Maybe he felt unworthy of his new rank, and found it easier to focus on the shortcomings of a junior colleague than on his own.

It worried him, too, that he was starting to enjoy disliking Chanter. It was becoming the closest thing he had to a hobby – something he looked forward to. He felt disappointed on the rare days when Chanter said and did nothing to annoy him, and had to resort to taking offence at the young PC’s clothes and physical appearance. The knot of his tie was always too knobbly and tight, like a fabric-wrapped walnut, and his arms were too short.