Her face, free of makeup, had a raw, pink, peeled look—as if it had been scrubbed vigorously over and over again. She was wearing jeans that bunched at the bottom, around the tops of her scuffed black ankle boots, and a bulky red padded anorak in spite of the warm weather.

“Your husband doesn’t seem to want to talk to me,” Gibbs told her.

“No, he does. He called me as soon as you arrived. That’s why I hurried back, to let you in. He doesn’t like having people in the house unless I’m there too, and he hates to have to interrupt his writing to come downstairs. Shall we . . . ?” She made a gesture that suggested crossing the road.

Gibbs shook his head in disbelief. He was about to follow her when it occurred to him that her husband had probably been watching their exchange. He looked up.

It was impossible to tell if Reuben Tasker was there or not. If he was, he was no longer able to watch the street as he had been a few minutes ago. While Gibbs had been talking to his wife, Tasker had covered the whole window—top to bottom, side to side—with black paper.

CHARLIE’S BAG STARTED TO vibrate against her hip as she walked briskly along the corridor. She would have ignored it, except it might be Simon and it might be important. Even if it wasn’t, he would think it was. He could, of course, wait, but he wouldn’t think that he could. Charlie sighed, jammed the files she was holding under her left arm and rummaged in her bag for her phone. She pulled it out and looked at the screen.

Simon. Waiting. He was the only person in her life who could communicate impatience telepathically. Other emotions, not so much. “Make it quick,” she told him by way of greeting.

“Why?”

“I’m on my way to interview Nicki Clements. She’s here with her husband, which is . . . interesting. Let’s see if she tells the same story Robbie Meakin tells about their . . . um, meeting. She said she’d only talk to a woman, so I think it’s looking promising.”

“Why you?” Simon asked.

“What, you think Gaynor from the canteen would do a better job? The Snowman asked me extra nicely. His exact words were, ‘You’re Waterhouse’s X chromosome—you do it.’ Where are you, by the way?”

“Walking,” said Simon. “Thinking. I need you to find out something for me, and not mention it to anyone else.”

“Sorry,” said Charlie. “Interviewing Nicki Clements is the only favor I’m doing for you today. I haven’t got time to—”