“On the grounds that all good parents, even flawed ones, want better for their children than whatever they had themselves,” said Sam. “Blundy said Riddiough could have afforded the very best for her son, but she’d actively sought to ensure that he had an education that was vastly inferior to her own, in an uglier building with fewer resources, dragged down by the stress and hopelessness common to all teachers in what Blundy called ‘perkless institutions,’ and surrounded by gangsters-in-the-making rather than the intellectually curious children of scientific innovators and visiting diplomats—or something like that. He accused Riddiough of doing it purely to annoy her rich Tory parents while hypocritically pretending it was some sort of left-wing principle.”

“They’re proper aristos, the Riddiough family,” Gibbs chipped in. “Seat in the House of Lords until recently.”

“Until all the hereditaries were replaced by inarticulate cockneys from reality-TV programs, you mean?” Proust got angry suddenly. “Paula Riddiough didn’t kill Damon Blundy! I mean, if we’re going by Waterhouse’s nonsense theory about the inability of our killer to express himself openly in public—Paula Riddiough expresses herself in every perishing newspaper supplement I ever see, even now that she’s no longer an MP. Wasn’t it her oversharing that prompted the calls for her resignation?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sam. “And it seems that the more Blundy attacked her, the more she overshared.”

“She and Blundy are two of a kind,” said Gibbs. “Shock jocks. I agree, it’s unlikely she killed him, but I wonder—”

“All right, talk to her,” Proust cut him off. “You have to, don’t you? I wish Blundy had considered the inconvenience to us in the event of his murder. It’s going to take us until next year to interview everyone who might have wanted him dead, by the sound of it. Who else?”

“Two ex-wives, Verity Hewson and Abigail Meredith,” said Sam. “Referred to by Blundy in his columns as Princess Doormat and Dr. Despot.”

“Going back to Paula Riddiough . . .” Gibbs decided to risk airing his thoughts. “What about Blundy’s computer password, Riddy111111? ‘Riddy’ could be short for ‘Riddiough.’ It was the first thing I thought when I heard her name.”

“When you speak to her, ask her if anyone calls her Riddy,” said Proust. “Continue with the list of enemies, Sergeant.”

“A writer of horror novels, Reuben Tasker, and the journalist Keiran Holland. Both hated Blundy.”

“Keiran Holland?” Proust looked surprised. “The Britain-must-join-the-euro guy?”

“I don’t think he does so much economic journalism these days, but—”

“Talk to them both,” the Snowman cut Sam off. “What about Hannah, the grieving widow? What do we think about her claim that Blundy can’t really have loved her?”

“Simon and I both thought she believed what she was saying, but . . . I think that’s probably paranoia on her part. Low self-esteem.”

“Not as ugly as she thinks she is?” Sellers asked.