“That would be helpful.”

“I’m sure there are wives who’d murder anyone who said a bad word about their husbands, but I’m not one of them,” Iona added with a smile.

“Though you’ve been very supportive whenever Damon’s attacked me,” said Holland, speaking to his wife but looking at Sellers to make sure he got the point. “No, as I say, I’ve no idea why he zeroed in on me and set about proving I was the worst human being who’s ever lived. The first time he devoted a column to attacking me was late April 2011, during the AV debate—you know, the alternative voting system? Remember that?”

Sellers nodded and tried not to groan. Were they back to this again? He thought he’d successfully changed the subject.

“Damon was against AV—called it the most nonsensical voting system ever to be created—and I was passionately in favor. That was when we first locked horns, but then he dug up other columns I’d written, some from years ago. He attacked me retrospectively for my stance on the euro, for having supported the Iraq War—I still say there was a case for removing Saddam—”

“Mr. Holland, if we could get back to Monday morning,” Sellers spoke over him. “While you were out walking, did you see anyone you knew?”

Holland laughed. “Are you serious? I need an alibi? You think I killed Damon?”

“Not at all. I’m sure you can appreciate, Damon Blundy being who he was, that we’re asking a lot of people where they were on Monday morning.”

“No, I didn’t see anyone I knew,” Holland said impatiently. “I sometimes do, and I sometimes don’t. Maybe you should put up a poster on Wandsworth Common with my mugshot: ‘Did anyone see this man here on Monday morning, or is this the face of a murderer?’ Ridiculous.”

“DC Sellers has to ask,” said Iona. “Even though it’s you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Holland snapped at her.

She seemed to find his anger amusing. “It means, darling, that even though you know and I know you didn’t kill Damon Blundy, DC Sellers doesn’t. I assume you don’t want a police force that takes everybody’s word for everything?”

“You’re right,” said Holland after a few seconds. “I apologize, DC Sellers. But I’m afraid I can’t help you. I went for a walk. I didn’t go to . . . wherever it is and stab Damon Blundy.”

“Why do you say ‘stab’?” asked Sellers.

Holland frowned. “No reason. I mean . . . well, he was killed in his house, wasn’t he? I assumed . . .” He broke off and laughed. “All right, I’m going to sound like an idiot when I admit this, but no doubt I deserve the attendant embarrassment: in my mind, shootings happen outside and stabbings happen inside. Daft, illogical, but there we are.”