“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.

At the front door, Paula said, “I need to come and see you. In Spilling.”

It was an admission. Unambiguous.

“To tell me what you couldn’t say in front of your husband?” Simon asked.

“How about Monday, ten A.M.? Or Tuesday afternoon—I’ve got another appointment in the Culver Valley on Tuesday morning, so I’ll be around anyway. No, I tell you what: let’s make it Monday at ten past ten. I think that would be appropriate, don’t you? And then I’ll stay over somewhere, for my Tuesday meeting.”

“I’d rather say ten o’clock,” said Simon uncomfortably.

“And I’d rather say ten past.” Paula raised one eyebrow provocatively. “If only to prove to you that two people can meet at a daft time of day and not be having a clandestine affair.”

CHARLIE SMILED WHEN SHE heard Simon’s voice say, “What?” He sounded hassled. Normally he didn’t answer when she called him; he preferred to let her give up, then call her back.

“Guess what I’ve just found waiting for me on my desk,” she said.

“What?”

“Copies of the pathologist’s report, the crime-scene report—”

“Damon Blundy?” Simon talked over her.

“—confirmation of several alibis: Rabbi Fedder, Verity Hewson, Abigail Meredith, Richard Crumlish, Lee Redgate, Nicki Clements, the neighbor whose daughter’s earlobe he wrote about cutting off. Yeah, Damon Blundy. Nice that someone thought to include me, isn’t it? Whoever it was kindly swept all my work to one side. Some of it fell off the desk onto the floor.”

“Proust,” said Simon.

“Or Sellers in a bad mood. Do you know what’s up with him?”

“Yeah, and I wish I didn’t. He deserves his bad mood and worse.”

“Tell me,” said Charlie eagerly.

“Later. Tell me about the pathologist’s report.”