“I have to. I need to explain to the others, and with this Gilligan business too, I’m needed here. Look, you’re the only one of us who shouldn’t be having anything to do with the Blundy murder—there’s no reason why you can’t go to London.”

“‘Shouldn’t be having anything to do with the Blundy murder,’” Proust repeated. “Is that a euphemism for ‘Shouldn’t be posting details of the crime scene on a dating site without permission,’ I wonder?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Charlie snapped at him. To Simon, she said, “Yeah, me not being CID means you shouldn’t ask me to do anything. It doesn’t mean you get to send me to London whenever it suits you! Who’s King Edward?”

“Did he murder Damon Blundy?” Gibbs asked. He sounded nearly as desperate as Charlie felt.

“Go,” Simon told Charlie. “You won’t miss out. I’ll tell you everything later. I haven’t got time to explain it all now.”

“Oh, fucking . . . All right! I’m going.”

“Faster,” Simon shouted after her.

Charlie swore to herself all the way back to her office. Dictatorial, infuriating arse-wipe! Didn’t he realize how arrogant it was to be unwilling to share any information at all simply because you don’t have the time to give your usual detailed presentation, in the order that most suits you? Simon wouldn’t dream of revealing only the who without the why, the how, the how-the-hell-did-you-work-that-out? And, as he’d so kindly pointed out, Charlie wasn’t part of his team. Whenever he felt like excluding her, she had no official right to object.

How would it have compromised the case in any way if he’d answered her question before sending her packing? How long would that have taken? First name, last name: three seconds, maximum.

Bastard. He could have given her a name. Unless he wasn’t certain yet. Maybe he wanted to talk it through with . . .

Charlie’s phone buzzed in her pocket, interrupting her speculations. It was a text from Simon. A name. Followed by the words “explanation to follow.”

“Wow,” Charlie whispered to herself. “So that’s who King Edward is.” She thought: “If Damon Blundy were still alive, he would write such a brilliant column about his own murder.” It didn’t make sense, but she knew what she meant.

She understood why Simon had texted the name after refusing to tell her. He hadn’t wanted to blurt out the identity of King Edward in front of the others; they were going to get the explanation first and then the name. Wherever possible, Simon liked to do things in the correct order.

“RIGHT,” SAID SIMON, PUTTING his phone back in his pocket. “Are we all agreed: Bryn Gilligan didn’t murder anyone?”

“I am,” said Sam.