“Your son’s surname is Riddiough, then?” Simon asked. “Not Crumlish like his father?”

“You’ve done your homework. I’m flattered.” Paula smiled. “My son’s name is Toby Crumlish-Riddiough,” said Paula.

And you sent him to a state school in Combingham, and expected him to survive his first day?

Riddy111111. Was it possible the Riddy in Damon Blundy’s password was Toby? “How did Damon Blundy know your school nickname?”

“Good question,” said Paula. “One of his hobbies was digging around looking for any dirt on me he could find. He probably unearthed one of my old classmates and got it from her.”

“Or he had your son in mind,” said Simon. “Did you have Toby with you on November 11, 2011, when you met Damon?”

“No. Of course not. Why would I take my son to what was likely to be a deeply unpleasant meeting?”

“Did you ever refer to Toby as Riddy in Blundy’s presence?”

“No. And . . . Damon wouldn’t have been interested enough in Toby to make a password out of him,” said Paula. “Damon’s one of those childless men for whom children barely exist. When I tried to explain to him how much his attacks on me were hurting Toby, he laughed and said, ‘Buy him a packet of Maltesers and he’ll be fine.’ And he had the nerve to call me a bad mother and say I only cared about my career and my sex life! If you added up all the times I’ve had sex since Toby was born and set that total against the number of times I’ve read Tiddler and The Gruffalo and The Gruffalo’s Child—my favorite books in the world!—I promise you sex would be the loser!”

“Paula’s a brilliant mother,” Fergus announced loudly.

“Thank you, darling.” She ruffled his hair again.

A brilliant mother to whom, Simon wondered, Toby or Fergus? There was something maternal about the way she was gazing fondly at her husband.

“Thanks for your patience, both of you.” Simon stood up. “I’ll get out of your hair now, but I’ll probably be back.”

“Anytime,” said Paula. “I’ll walk you to the front door. Don’t want you getting lost on the way. It’s a bit of a maze. Are you coming too, Loophole? Sweet girl! Darling, you couldn’t stick the kettle on, could you? I think we deserve a cup of tea for getting through our first ever police interview!”

Simon could have done with a cup of tea, but at no point had one been offered.

He, Paula and the dog walked to the front door in single file. Every wall had a mountain of miscellaneous items piled up against it—bicycles, Wellington boots, a watering can, two cans of paint—not Dulux’s Ruby Fountain 2, Simon noticed. Here were two kegs of beer, a wheelbarrow, several clear plastic containers with royal blue plastic lids. All of these things narrowed the usable space by about half. This was the domestic equivalent of a clogged artery.