Before everyone jumps down my throat: yes, of course I can see that the two cases are different—cannabis is not as unambiguously performance-enhancing as whatever it was that Gilligan took. One writer’s prose might be boosted by illegal drugs, another’s by instant Nescafé or the sugar rush from a packet of Minstrels. My own reaction to cannabis is to fall asleep within ten seconds of ingesting it, so it wouldn’t do anything for my writing style, whereas a strong cup of brick-colored tea is all I need in order to be able to produce the seamless brilliance you’re reading now.

So, yes, it’s different. But is it different in a way that matters, assuming one doesn’t believe rules should be adhered to simply because they’re there? I don’t think it is. I think it’s crazy that sports people are subject to such different constraints from writers and artists when it comes to professional competitions. How can the discrepancy be justified? More interestingly, how can Keiran Holland’s hypocrisy be justified?

“He’s a liar and a cheat.” Yes, Keiran—you are, aren’t you?

CHAPTER 2

Monday, July 1, 2013

“THAN,” SAID DETECTIVE CONSTABLE Simon Waterhouse. He turned away from the red letters on the wall of Damon Blundy’s study. He was sick of looking at them, must have read the words more than a hundred times since arriving at 27 Elmhirst Road earlier in the day: “HE IS NO LESS DEAD.”

“Than?” Detective Sergeant Sam Kombothekra repeated.

“Yeah. It’s the most important word. The silent ‘than.’ You can’t see it.”

“You mean . . .” Sam approached the wall to inspect it more closely. “Can you see it?”

“No.” Simon smiled at his skipper’s confusion. “Because it’s not there.”

Neither was Damon Blundy’s body, not anymore. It had been photographed, examined and removed. Yet the chair beside the desk didn’t feel empty; it still contained the solid idea of a dead man. It was the perfect illustration of murder, Simon thought: someone once present who was now absent. A space where a person ought to be, a perceptible negative. Simon could see the deceased Blundy in his mind as clearly as if he’d still been slumped there. Packing tape on his face, the knife taped tight against his mouth . . . The picture was as vivid to Simon as the missing “than” on the wall.