Not much point giving him the warning he’s just given me, Simon thought. Bryn evidently knew his mother was right, but had difficulty putting the theory into practice.

“So, you’re here to ask me if I murdered Damon Blundy,” said Bryn, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Yes, I probably did.”

“Pardon?” Without asking permission, Simon pulled out one of the chairs from under the kitchen table and sat down.

“I probably killed him. Let’s see: I’m an evil cheat and liar with no integrity; I don’t care about the rules, don’t care about anyone but myself. I took Blundy to task for misrepresenting me once, even though he was trying to stick up for me—September 2011. I was in crazy defensive mode, lashing out at anyone who mentioned my name. One of those people was Blundy, and I attacked him for defending me. It was a stupid thing to do, nearly as stupid as doping for years and thinking I wouldn’t get caught. Whoever killed Blundy did a stupid thing too—they’ll probably get caught.” Bryn smiled. “It’s sounding more and more like me, isn’t it? The killer has my psychological profile. And I was here in the house on my own on Monday morning, so I’ve got no alibi—therefore, yes, I probably did murder Damon Blundy.”

“Did you tweet or email anyone from that computer between eight thirty and ten thirty on Monday?” Simon asked. “If you did, we can prove where those communications came from. If it’s a server in Norwich, two hours from Spilling, then you’re in the clear.” Was it a server he meant or a router? No—definitely not a router.

Simon’s IT knowledge was limited. The other day, Charlie had laughed at him for not understanding what “the Cloud” was. He glanced down at his watch. It was eleven. He was meeting Charlie for lunch at one. He needed to set off now, ideally. This morning he’d been up at four to fit in the rabbi and the surgeon. He’d left tired behind hours ago and was now approaching shattered.

Bryn was shaking his head. “I’m not in the clear. You might be able to prove that someone using my Twitter ID was tweeting all morning from this computer, this kitchen, this house, but how can you prove it was me? It could have been anyone who knew my password and felt inclined to defend me for a few hours. My password is ‘cheating1,’ in case you’re wondering.”

“Did you kill Damon Blundy?” Simon asked, reeling a little. The density of Bryn’s self-loathing was making it difficult to breathe. Simon wished Sam were with him.