“I’m not sure I understand,” said Gibbs diplomatically.

“I’m sure you don’t understand,” Tasker said accusingly, staring over Gibbs’s shoulder at the window. “The black paper makes no difference. I can’t see out, but I know what’s there.”

“Why wouldn’t you let me in before?” Gibbs asked.

“I did. I called Jane. She came and let you in.”

“You know what I’m asking. Are you going to answer or not?”

Tasker made a helpless gesture with his hands. “I’ve been judged by every newspaper in the land, thanks to Damon Blundy. I’ve had hate-mail. I had one death threat. There are a lot of crazy people out there, looking for a convenient target. How do I know whoever’s at the door isn’t going to chuck acid in my face?”

“You’d rather risk your wife’s face?” Gibbs asked.

There was a knock at the door of the attic room. Unbelievably, Tasker nodded at Gibbs as if to say, “You can let her in.”

It was easier to do it than to object. Gibbs opened the door to Jane Tasker, praying she hadn’t overheard the last part of the conversation. “Can I come in?” she asked.

“It’s your house,” said Gibbs.

She stayed where she was, on the top step, outside the room.

“You can come in,” Tasker called out to her.

She started to move at the sound of his voice, like a remote-controlled device at the press of a button.

“What do you want?” he asked her. He looked confused, as if her being there puzzled him. As if he’d rather not deal with it, but recognized that he had no choice.

“I just wondered if the two of you wanted a cup of tea?” Jane blushed as she asked the question, and slid the palm of her right hand over the palm of her left as if trying to wipe something off it. “DC Gibbs?”

“No, thanks.” Jane had offered him a cup of tea when he’d first arrived, before he and Tasker had come up to the attic.

“Not for me,” said Tasker.

“OK, but . . .” Jane didn’t move. Now she looked flustered, while Tasker was acting as if she’d already left the room. Gibbs had watched as his eyes slid off her and over to the black squares on the window. Jane was peering at him, as if trying to guess what he might want her to say next. Eventually, she said, “What about . . . something else? Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?”

“No, thanks,” Gibbs said again. “I’m fine.”

“No.” Tasker was distracted. “Maybe later. Thanks.”

“Oh! All right, later.” Was that excitement in her voice, at the prospect of being able to bring refreshments in the near future? Impossible. Wasn’t it?

“Well, then . . . shall I go?” Jane asked. “Will you call me when you’re ready for a drink?”