“So, something’s fishy there, chances are,” said Charlie. “I’m assuming you know who owns the Audi, since you know it’s silver and our drama premiere’s in black-and-white.” She nodded at the screen.

“Car belongs to a Mrs. Nichola Clements,” said Sellers. “19 Bartholomew Gardens, Spilling.”

“So why aren’t you around there talking to her now?” Charlie asked.

“It’s definitely worth doing that, isn’t it?” said Gibbs.

Charlie laughed. “Are you kidding me? Have you got so many other promising leads that you can afford to ignore this one?”

“No, I mean . . . I think it’s worth it, but I wanted your take on it. It could be perfectly innocent, just a local busybody, as you say.”

“Course we have to talk to her,” said Sellers.

Charlie exhaled slowly. “What’s this about, Gibbs? You’re trying to flatter me by making out my opinion really matters to you—I get that, though I’ve no idea why—but couldn’t you have found something more interesting to ask me, something a bit less obvious? Anyone with a brain, seeing what you’ve just shown me, would say you should speak to Nichola Clements as soon as you can.”

“I’ve been saying it,” said Sellers.

“Anyone with a brain, and Sellers as well, would say interview Nichola Clements,” Charlie teased.

Sellers attempted a smile, but it didn’t take. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Gibbs asked him.

A good moment to leave them to it, Charlie decided. Even stone-cold-sober cultural awareness was preferable to this.

“I CAN’T PROVE THAT Damon never loved me, so if it’s evidence you’re after, you’ll be disappointed. As I have been.” Hannah Blundy faced Simon and Sam across the large oval-shaped wooden table in her kitchen. The family liaison officer, a young woman called Uzma who seemed incapable of performing any action quietly, was making them all tea, if the available visual evidence was reliable and if you considered it in isolation; the sound effects suggested a train crash at close range. Irritating though it was, Simon welcomed the background noise; it helped to add a veneer of normality to one of the most unlikely conversations he’d ever had, and he’d had a fair few.

“I understand,” said Sam. “You mean there was nothing concrete, only a . . . feeling you had?”

“No, if I’d allowed myself to be guided by feelings alone, I could have been blissfully happy in my marriage,” said Hannah. “Damon told me he loved me all the time. He behaved as if he loved me. Our physical relationship was great—very passionate.” As she spoke, she seemed to be conducting a kind of inner audit: Is that statement true? Yes. And is this statement also true? Yes. Am I sure? Yes.

“But . . . you didn’t feel loved?” Sam tried again.