“No, I didn’t. But as Twitter’ll tell you from dawn to dusk three hundred and sixty-five days a year, my word’s not worth shit. So . . . when you don’t immediately find your killer, you’ll think about me, and how I was here on my own the day Blundy was killed, and you’ll come back and arrest me. So why not do it now? I’d rather get it over with.”

“I don’t believe you killed anyone, so I’m not arresting you,” Simon told him.

“You’re not arresting me yet,” Bryn said knowingly. “And yet, I’m so arrestable—I don’t know how you can resist. You’ll be back, I’m sure.”

“He is no less dead,” Simon said, making sure to speak clearly.

Bryn frowned. “No less dead than what? What do you mean?”

Well, that was one test passed with flying colors.

He’s lied before, though, about his drug use . . . repeatedly, convincingly.

“Who do you think might have killed Damon Blundy?” Simon asked.

“Keiran Holland,” Bryn said without hesitation. He took a sip of what looked like cloudy apple juice from the glass beside his laptop.

“You sound certain about that.”

“No. I’ve no idea. You asked me who I thought might have done it. Keiran Holland’s a man without a shred of compassion in his soul. For all I know, he’s got a rock-solid alibi, but if he hasn’t . . . Lack of compassion, plus known hatred of Damon Blundy . . .” Bryn shrugged. “If I were you, I’d have Holland somewhere very near the top of my suspect list.”

“NO WATERHOUSE?” DETECTIVE INSPECTOR Giles Proust looked disappointed. He pushed in between Gibbs and Sellers on his way to his desk as if they were inconveniently positioned items of furniture. Gibbs was familiar with the maneuver. Debbie often swept past him in a similar way, without looking at him.

“Simon’s still with Bryn Gilligan,” said Sam Kombothekra. “He wants to know if any kind of appointment diary for Damon Blundy’s been found from 2011.”

“Not at the house,” said Sellers. “There might be something on his computer, which is with the tech guys. I’m going there from here, so I’ll ask. Why? Why 2011?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “Simon didn’t explain, just said he’s keen to see Blundy’s diary from that year if it’s around.”

“He’ll have a good reason,” said Gibbs.

Sam smiled. “One we won’t be able to work out, however hard we try,” he said.

“Have I interrupted the omnibus edition of a Simon Waterhouse tribute program?” Proust said icily, earning his “Snowman” nickname, as he did reliably at least once a day. “Any chance the talking heads could talk about the investigation? What have we got from the scene? The killer took Blundy’s phone, we think, but did he leave anything? Any large helpful flakes of DNA?”