Gibbs reread the Intimate Links advert. He held it up. “The date on this is June 2010. You say Blundy replied and they started an affair—why wouldn’t Nicki start commenting on his columns immediately? Why wait till October the following year?”

“Again, I’m not sure, but . . . my guess is that for quite a long time, she didn’t know who he was. I think they emailed back and forth and, at first, didn’t know much about each other. You’d have to build up trust, wouldn’t you? Especially someone in the public eye like Damon Blundy.”

That made sense. “And she stopped commenting on his columns in February this year?” Gibbs asked.

Melissa nodded. “I suspect that’s when they broke up. She stopped mentioning him then too—until Tuesday, when she came around to tell me he’d been murdered, and asked me to lie for her.”

“Hang on, rewind a bit,” said Gibbs. “You say she mentioned him . . . Did she tell you they were having an affair, then?”

“No, never. Nor did she ever tell me she’d posted an advert on Intimate Links.” Melissa looked caught out. Guilty, even. “Nicki and I have been best friends since school. She used to tell me everything—all her secrets, all her lies. Then, a few years ago, I started going out with her brother. He and I are now married. I didn’t realize how bad an effect Nicki’s lying had had on him, his childhood, their family life . . . So I asked Nicki to stop telling me anything that I’d have to keep from Lee. He hates lying—absolutely hates it. Honesty’s more important to him than anything.”

She seemed to be waiting for Gibbs to say, “Quite right too.”

“So . . . Nicki didn’t tell you she was having an affair with Blundy because she wouldn’t have wanted her brother to know?”

“Right,” said Melissa. “And I’d have refused to keep it from him. She knew that. But . . . she can be a bitch, Nicki. She hated my being with her brother—I think she regarded it as some sort of betrayal of our friendship. And she hated not being able to tell me things anymore, so she found a way around it: she told me without telling me. One day she told me, out of the blue, about this website, Intimate Links. I’d never heard of it before. I asked her why she was bringing it up. She said, ‘Oh, no reason,’ in an exaggeratedly innocent tone that told me everything I needed to know. ‘People advertise on it, for lovers,’ she said. ‘Most of the ads are appallingly badly written. You should have a look—one or two are quite entertaining.’ I knew exactly what she was telling me, and she knew I’d look and find her advert—it was obviously her: she’s always saying BBC4’s the only TV channel worth watching—and she knew I wouldn’t say anything to Lee because she hadn’t actually told me anything, and she could easily deny it if asked, and would have, most definitely!”