Next was a vine-covered villa they’d rented, a stray cat that had been Stephanie’s particular friend, a tanned and handsome waiter. Dinner had tired me, and it was a relief to observe the two-dimensional Van Gelders on the wall, accompanied by Gerry’s calm drone, rather than to engage the flesh-and-blood Van Gelders in dialogue. All day I had hurried from one appointment to the next, it seemed, and now at last there was room for a breather, a little time to stop and think.

And just like that I found my attention drifting to the lunchtime concert of the Kindertotenlieder. What a disappointment that had been, on the musical front, at least. But Kirstie—here Gerry clicked through to a photo of Ann and Stephanie sunbathing in modest swimming suits—there was something about her that warranted looking into. That she would remark upon my resemblance to my late father was unexpected, to say the least.

Of course, given my father’s position at the university, it was not implausible that Kirstie should have some familiarity with his appearance, and it was also true that there was a family resemblance. Quite a striking one, according to some. But was that a reason to look so moistly and unappealingly forlorn? The concert, perhaps, had affected her. I shook my head, forgetting I was not alone. How anyone could have paid attention to that singing long enough to be moved to tears was beyond me.

Beside me I heard the soft clink of Ann’s wedding ring on her wineglass. We were seated beside each other on the sofa and she was sitting as still as a statue, shrouded in shadow. I could hear her breathing, and from time to time she made small exhalations that somehow managed to convey dissatisfaction. The more I sat and listened to them, the more I had a nagging sense that these expressions were somehow for my benefit. But, I thought, as I had that morning about the briefcase, this was only a distraction, immaterial to the investigation.

Above the mantel another seascape had appeared, a bright Dalmatian blue. On the other hand, I thought, thinking of Kirstie again, perhaps I was reading too much into it. It could simply have been an excess of emotion; women were susceptible to that, in my experience, for no reason other than biological disposition. My own mother, a highly logical person, not prone to displays of affection, had been the exception rather than the rule. And perhaps it was because I’d had her, for so long, as my only example, that I found the condition so distasteful in other women.

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