“No, I want to know that too,” said Hannah. She looked surprised. “Of course I want you to find out who killed Damon. That’s part of it, I’m sure, and the password is part of it. I never imagined the police might one day help me solve the mystery. This is my chance.” She sniffed, wiped her face with the back of her right hand.

Since she didn’t seem stupid, Simon assumed she would have known as soon as she discovered his dead body that the unlawful suffocation of her husband would attract serious and immediate help from detectives. And her “one day” suggested something that had been bothering her for a long time, not a crime that had been committed between half past eight and half past ten this morning. Therefore . . . the mystery Hannah Blundy was referring to couldn’t be Damon’s murder. That, in her eyes, was the chance to solve the puzzle; it wasn’t the puzzle itself. Interesting.

“What do you mean, Hannah?” Sam asked. “This is your chance for what?”

“To find out the truth that my husband was so determined to keep from me,” she said, staring down at her feet. “Whatever it is, I hope it’s what got him killed. If it wasn’t—if that was something completely different and unrelated—then whatever you find out about the murder won’t help me. I’d given up hope of ever knowing, but now . . .” She stopped with a ragged gasp, wide-eyed. “Promise me you’ll tell me the truth if you find out.”

“The truth about what?” Simon asked.

“Why Damon pretended to love me,” said Hannah.

“CHARLIE, HAVE YOU GOT a minute?”

Sergeant Charlie Zailer was on her way to the canteen for a cup of tea and a cake, if there were any left that had icing and didn’t look too dry and stale. She turned round and saw DC Chris Gibbs in the corridor behind her. He was smiling a better man’s smile: gracious and innocent. It bore no resemblance to anything Charlie was used to seeing on his face. Instantly, she was on her guard. He wanted something, and, without knowing what, Charlie wasn’t inclined to give it to him.

“Not really,” she said. “I’ve got an early evening meeting.” Which would be fine if there was going to be wine there, but there wasn’t. The provision of refreshments was not the Culver Valley Cultural Awareness Action Group’s strong point. “Why?”

“It’s the Damon Blundy murder. Something’s cropped up on the CCTV. Simon and Sam are still at the house.” Gibbs shrugged and managed to look almost shy. “I’d like to know what you think.”

“Why? I don’t work for CID any more.” Charlie said this whenever she could, to anyone who would listen, in the hope that she would one day be able to say it without its causing her pain.