“So this is our way into the ‘than,’” said Simon, feeling positive for the first time since arriving at 27 Elmhirst Road. “‘He is no less dead than . . .’ Whatever comes afterward, the meaning has to be the same as the meaning of the paint, the brush, the photo, the knife . . . They’re all problems with the same solution.”

“What about the laptop password?” said Sam. He walked over to Damon Blundy’s desk, picked up the red-painted page and held it in the air. “Riddy111111. Does that also mean the same thing?”

“If it’s a new password, thought up by the killer, then yes,” said Simon. “If it was Blundy’s choice of password and nothing to do with the killer, then no. Even so—it has to mean something. Riddy one-eleven one-eleven. Riddy triple one triple one.”

“Damon always claimed it meant nothing,” said a woman’s voice from the landing. “It’s been his password for a long time—at least a year.”

Simon turned. Hannah Blundy was standing at the top of the stairs, holding on to the bannister with one hand. She was still crying, but more passively now; the tears seemed to be doing their thing without her involvement or attention.

She was an odd-looking woman: broad-shouldered, square and stocky from the waist up, with long skinny legs. Her round face, if it were all that you saw of her, would make you think she must be fat, but she wasn’t. Looking at her made Simon realize how well designed and coordinated most people’s bodies and faces were. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone before whose top half clashed so markedly with their bottom half, and both halves with their face.

Having said all that, Hannah Blundy wasn’t ugly. Her features were inoffensive, and her shiny dark-brown shoulder-length hair was attractive. It looked like hair Simon had seen on TV advertisements and rarely in real life.

“I never believed him,” she said. “Whatever ‘Riddy one-eleven one-eleven’ means, or even if it means nothing, he must have gotten it from somewhere, otherwise why those letters? Why those numbers?”

“So you knew it was his password?” asked Sam.

Hannah nodded. “I made him tell me what it was. I told him mine. If he had no secrets from me, why would he mind me looking on his laptop? He said it was just random, Riddy111111. It was a lie, but I can’t prove it. I . . . Please, if you find out . . .” She bit her lip and looked down at the floor, as if she’d lost confidence in the rest of her sentence.

Simon took a step toward her. “Find out what?”

“About the password. What it means. I want to know.”

“More than you want to know who murdered your husband?”

“Simon . . .” Sam murmured.