“What about stranglings, poisonings?” Sellers asked him. “Couldn’t they happen inside too?”

“Of course, but . . . aren’t they more rare?” Holland lost interest in his question before it was answered. “Look, if you’re trying to suggest that I knew Damon was stabbed because I stabbed him, you’re way off the mark. I just said it without thinking.”

“Damon Blundy wasn’t stabbed,” Sellers told him.

“What?” Holland looked confused. “But then why . . . ?”

“Why what?”

“If he wasn’t stabbed, what on earth does it matter that I assumed he was? It’s not relevant to anything.”

“Perhaps not,” Sellers said, thinking, We’ll see. His kids hated it when he said, “We’ll see,” in response to their various requests. “Just say no if you’re going to say no!” they often snarled at him.

“They say people hate anyone who’s too similar to them, don’t they?” Holland mused. “I’m nothing like Damon Blundy, thank God. I’ve wondered if it was almost the opposite syndrome, though. Damon was obsessed with what I thought about every issue, and with attacking my opinion. Maybe he couldn’t cope with the idea of my thoughts because they were the opposite of his, almost always. I mean, it must be a somewhat disconcerting experience, coming up against someone who’s undeniably intelligent but cancels you out on every point, when you believe yourself to be intelligent. A bit like seeing your own mind in a mirror—it would make you wonder what your mind really looks like, wouldn’t it?”

“I think DC Sellers might like another cup of tea,” said Iona, swallowing a yawn. “I would, anyway.”

“That would be great, thanks,” Sellers said.

Iona didn’t move.

Holland stood up. “Right, I’ll go and put the kettle on,” he said.

When he’d left the room, Iona said, “My husband is many things, but he’s not a murderer. And I’m not just saying that because I’m his wife.”

“If you could encourage him to try and remember if he saw anyone he knew, anyone at all—”

“No,” said Iona. “Sorry. You encourage him if you want to.” She smiled.

Strange woman. My husband is many things . . .

“I’ve spent years encouraging him to see the stark staring obvious about why Damon Blundy kept targeting him in a way that he targeted no one else. Keiran’s right about that, Blundy did do that. I try to tell him why and he doesn’t hear me. It goes in one ear and out the other. He speculates endlessly—canceling out, mind in a mirror—it’s all crap! Overblown crap.”

“Then what was it?” Sellers asked. Jealousy, because Holland had slept with Paula Riddiough and Damon wanted to?

“Damon loved to argue and scrap,” Iona said. “There are many people one can argue with about individual issues, but . . .” She stopped talking as Keiran reappeared.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “Milk and sugar?”