“That’s what I think it was,” said Simon. “Sam, when you and I interviewed Nicki on the day of the murder, she told us she didn’t know Blundy. If she knew him and didn’t want to admit it, she’d lie, obviously, but that wasn’t all she said. She also said, ‘I couldn’t have known him any less if I’d tried.’ Why add that? Most people wouldn’t. She sounded bitter when she said it.”

Sam nodded slowly. “To us, it sounded like a more emphatic ‘I didn’t know him,’ but to her, it meant ‘What an idiot I am—believing I was romantically involved with a man who’d never even heard of me.’”

“Spot on,” said Simon.

“You said you were going to come back to why King Edward didn’t want to tell Nicki who he was, and you haven’t,” said Proust. “Who is he, by the way?” he added with exaggerated casualness.

Simon decided he’d made them wait long enough. Almost. “A man who, sitting at his desk one day browsing the Intimate Links ‘Women Seeking Men’ page, found an ad he wanted to respond to. He couldn’t use his own name, so he needed a pseudonym. He probably got up from his desk at that point, walked around the room a bit, like I am now, because it helps me to think clearly. He looked out of the window at the school opposite his house and thought, ‘King Edward VII—that’ll do nicely.’”

“Reuben Tasker,” said Gibbs. “I fucking knew that guy was dodgy.”

“Well? Waterhouse?”

“Yes.” Finally, Simon gave Proust the name he was after. “Reuben Tasker. That’s why he started to hate the school and wanted to block out its sign—after his long relationship with Nicki ended, he didn’t welcome the reminder. It would have hurt him every time he saw that name.”

“And then after Blundy died, he hated it even more,” said Sam, his voice rising in excitement. “That has to be significant.”

“It is,” said Simon. “Before last Monday, the name King Edward VII was a painful reminder of a love affair gone horribly wrong. Since the murder, it’s reminded Tasker of something he’s even keener to avoid thinking about: the fact that he killed Damon Blundy.”

“NO, YOU’RE WRONG, LOVE,” PC Claire Whelan told Yolanda Shaw, the receptionist on duty at the Chancery Hotel. “You’ve got a Nicki Clements staying in room 419. Just look, will you?”

“You can say it as often as you like, it doesn’t make it true,” said Yolanda. “I have looked—you saw me. There’s a guest in room 419 whose name bears no resemblance to the one you’ve just given me.”

“Well, that’s not what I’ve been told.” PC Whelan pulled her phone out of her pocket. “All right, what’s the name of your person, then?”