Eventually, Tasker said, “But . . . well, when you read enough tweets and online comments and letters about how you’re a drug addict, it’s kind of hard to avoid the conclusion that you’re a drug addict and that maybe that’s not ideal. Jane had been worried about my health, and my concentration, for a while—I’d always told her I was fine and not to be stupid, before. Obviously, I knew I smoked weed every day—I used to tell myself it made my books better, which was bullshit. I mean, I’m writing a book now and it’s no worse off for the lack of skunk.” Tasker smiled. “It’s probably better. I can think more clearly. Truth is, I was a drug addict who wanted to spend all day every day stoned and I came up with a convenient justification: I needed it for the words to flow—because, conveniently, I happened to be a writer too. It was bullshit.”

“And now, thanks to Damon Blundy, you’re drug-free,” said Gibbs.

Tasker’s smile turned to a grimace. “Yeah, well . . . let’s not give him too much credit. He wouldn’t have cared if I’d died in a ditch with a syringe hanging out of my arm. All he cared about was scoring points against Keiran Holland.”

Gibbs wanted to turn the conversation back to Tasker’s relationship with Jane, though he wasn’t sure why. He hoped he wasn’t becoming obsessed with marriages at the stranger end of the spectrum. “So when you gave up the drugs, your wife must have . . . supported that decision.”

Tasker looked momentarily confused. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said.

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Jane’s supportive whatever I do. She was just as supportive when I was caning it fourteen hours a day. She’s a stand-by-your-man kind of woman.”

“Is that a bad thing? You sound as if you’re criticizing her.”

“No,” said Tasker in a listless voice. He clearly didn’t want to talk about his wife. Gibbs knew the feeling.

“Why didn’t you open the door when I rang the bell?” he asked. “And why the black paper on the window?”

“Oh, that.” Tasker shook his head as if he’d remembered an annoying detail.

“It’s that fucking school across the road. When I’m writing, I look out of the window a lot. Well, I’d like to—in an ideal world. But I don’t like looking at that school.”

“Why not?”

“Noisy, bratty kids everywhere—would you want to see that?”

No. Gibbs wouldn’t have bought a house that was opposite a school. Tasker, however, had. “Do you hate children?” Is that why you have none of your own?

“No,” said Tasker. “I don’t hate schools either. Only the one across the road. Jane and I are thinking of moving so that I don’t have to look at it anymore.”