Breary threw back his head and laughed. "Simon, thats brilliant. Wrong, but brilliant."

Praise was the last thing Simon wanted, and he couldnt remember asking to be called by his Christian name in this interview or any of its predecessors. He was fighting the uncomfortable feeling that he and Tim Breary werent part of the same reality and that there was nothing he could do to change that. "When my colleague DC Sellers interviewed you, you said that people often dont know why they commit murder." Thats what Ive heard secondhand from a woman called Regan. Lets hope its true. "Did you research what real murderers do and dont say? You must have wanted to make sure you got it right, not being a murderer yourself."

"I didnt research anything," said Breary. "And if I had, would that prove I didnt kill Francine?"

Simon thought so, but sensed he was about to be told why he was wrong.

"Havent you ever had an experience and wondered if anyone else has had the same experience? Looked into it, maybe, to see if you have company in your predicament?"

"No," Simon said truthfully. "Why would whats happening to me have anything to do with anyone else and their life?"

Breary sat forward. "Are you being serious?"

A dangerous question when asked in that half-amused, half-shocked tone. Simon knew it well: less a genuine inquiry than a recommendation that you abandon your seriousness because the asker finds it inappropriate. The best answer, always, was "no," unless you wanted to embarra.s.s yourself, and Simon didnt. He let the silence run on.

"Sorry," Breary said. "Im starting to want to work you out, just as youre probably about ready to give up on me. The question is, would I rather understand or be understood?"

"And the answer?"

"Understand."

Same here. Every time.

"Im not giving up on anything," Simon told him, aware of a tightness in his chest that hadnt been there a few seconds earlier. Why was it so hard to keep people on the right side of the barrier? Strangers turning up at his door wanting to talk about shared bullying trauma, murder suspects wanting to solve him as if he were a puzzle . . . That was life, when you boiled it down: one human puzzle trying to solve another. Simon wished he could resign himself to not knowing, and that everyone he met would be content not to know him.

"Youll have to settle for second best and help me to understand you," he said. "You killed your wife, you tried to kill yourself. Yet you disapprove of killing."

"Yes."

"Except sometimes its necessary, for the avoidance of pain, isnt it? Lying there in that bed was no kind of life for Francine, so you helped her end a life you knew she didnt want to live anymore. A mercy killing."

"How kind of me, if only it were true," Breary said with sudden bitterness.

"Why not pretend its true and maybe avoid jail?"

"Why plant the possibility in my head? Dont you think murderers deserve to be locked up?"

"Yeah. I do."

"I want to be punished so that I can move on with a clean conscience."

"The only place youll be moving to if you keep pretending you murdered your wife is one prison cell after another."

"Metaphorically, I meant." Breary didnt challenge the part about pretense.

"I had an idea, on my way here," Simon said. "I kept thinking, why wouldnt he take the euthanasia lifeline I threw him?"

"You havent been listening. There are other goals in life aside from getting away with as much as you can."

Simon was uncomfortable with those thoughtful eyes on him. He stood up and walked over to the window. Out of reach. "Youre a good liar, but I dont believe you. All other things being equal, you dont want to be here, locked up."

"I dont know why anyone bothers with that expression," Breary said.

"Neither do I. All other things never are equal."

"Agreed."

"Ive been trying to think of a motive for you," said Simon. "For a murder that wasnt a mercy killing."

"Thank you, but I didnt have a motive. I didnt need one. I was able to kill my wife without one."

"Ive been thinking," Simon pressed on in spite of Brearys courteous discouragement. "One persons need or fear can turn into another persons obligation all too easily." It might not have happened with Francine and Tim Breary, but it happened often, and it was wrong. All those people whod give anything to turn and run in the opposite direction as they wheeled their sick partners through the doors of the Dignitas clinic, wishing for just one more month together, even in pain-one more week, one more day . . .

Simon was jumping ahead. He needed to create the scenario for Breary instead of reacting to it in his mind. As he did so often, he had to remind himself that he wasnt alone in the room. "Plenty of couples have the conversation while both of them are fit and healthy," he said. "One of them says, 'If Im ever not able to look after myself, if my quality of lifes shot to s.h.i.t and I cant end it . . . and so on." Simon didnt like to think about the details of what might be said. It was too distressing. "Did you and Francine have that discussion? Did she make you promise that if she was ever so incapacitated that she couldnt take her own life, youd do it for her? Maybe she found a way to communicate with you, even though she couldnt speak."

"Not possible," said Breary. "Francine had a left cerebral hemisphere stroke that left her with Brocas aphasia. She couldnt communicate at all. Before you ask the question everyone asks: no, she couldnt pick out letters on a board by blinking. Not all stroke victims can. Only the ones that make the headlines."

"All right, so you talked about it before she had her stroke," said Simon.

"Except we didnt."

"Francine made you promise to kill her if the choice was to let her lie there like a vegetable day after day, year after year, with no self-control and no dignity. How did you feel when she made you promise to do that? Perhaps you said you werent sure, but she wouldnt take no for an answer."

"Which would mean what?" Breary asked.

"I know how Id feel if my wife asked me. Not that she would. She wants the opposite: 'Leave me to vegetate, she says. 'Sit by my bed and read-" Simon broke off. Hed been about to say Moby-d.i.c.k, and was glad hed stopped himself. Tim Breary didnt need to know the name of his favorite book.

"Read . . . ?" Breary prompted.

"Read a book next to her, keep her company, but not kill her. Shed never ask me to do that. It wouldnt be fair. I wouldnt ask her, for the same reason."

Breary nodded. "Youre well matched, then. Francine and I werent so well matched, but we never had the discussion youre describing."

Simon knew his favored theory was crazy, but he wanted to get it out there, see how Breary responded. "Maybe Francine asked you to do it, and maybe you felt it was unfair. Its too much to ask of anybody, that they kill you-especially the one person whod be lost without you, the person whod want you to live no matter what. Id want my wife alive whatever state she was in, even if she was brain-dead and machines were breathing for her and doing everything for her. Having her thered still be better than not."

It was only when Breary said, "You obviously love her very much," that Simon realized hed let his focus slip and allowed his private business to get mixed up in what he was trying to achieve here. His satisfaction at having avoided mentioning Moby-d.i.c.k was canceled out. "Shed feel the same about me," he said. "Its not an unusual way to feel. Is it how you felt? Did you agree to kill Francine, or help her kill herself if that terrible moment ever came? Did you feel forced into agreeing? Because thats what it is, all that its-your-duty-to-kill-me-and-end-my-suffering bulls.h.i.t: blackmail, plain and simple. And blackmails been known to trigger murder."

"Never when Ive been the murderer." There was nothing flippant about Brearys delivery. He looked and sounded serious about making Simon understand. "Others might, but I would never kill for that reason. Id never kill for any reason. The minute a motive reared its head, Id question it. Id end up tearing it to pieces. I could only kill in the way that I killed Francine-for no reason, because it just happened, because I just did. I just did," he repeated quietly.

What the f.u.c.k was going on here? Was Breary implying that only cra.s.s, inferior murderers would act on something as hackneyed as a motive, that he was somehow more organic and intellectually modest for letting it happen without knowing why? Confused, Simon returned to his far-fetched theory, which was less outlandish than the reality of Tim Breary and every statement that came out of his mouth. "How hard was it, seeing Francine lying there, incapable of moving or speaking, knowing what youd promised her-knowing she knew it too? She wasnt brain-damaged."

"Of course she was." Breary looked surprised. "What do you think caused her Brocas aphasia and loss of mobility?"

Simon waved his words aside impatiently. "I mean, she wasnt brain-dead. She could think, even though she couldnt speak."

Breary ran his tongue back and forth along his lower lip. Eventually he said, "If the experts and their endless tests can be trusted, Francines brain still worked. She could listen, she could hear. I talked to her, played her music, read her poetry . . ." He blinked a couple of times, then looked straight at Simon, as if hed said to himself, "Thats enough of that." "And then, on the sixteenth of February, I killed her."

"You read her poetry because you wanted her to want to live. Why else would you bother?" Simon snapped, annoyed in advance because Breary was going to shoot down his theory, and it was a good one. "You didnt want to do what youd sworn youd do. You thought if Francine could listen and think, there was a point to her staying alive. But you knew she disagreed. She couldnt say so, but she didnt need to: shed made her views clear in the past. You knew shed hate to be helpless, and you knew shed be remembering what shed made you promise. Every time you read her a poem, you heard her unspoken accusation as loud as if shed screamed it: 'How can you let me down so badly? How can you betray me? You promised to kill me if I ever ended up like this."

Breary cleared his throat. "Go on," he said quietly.

"Why, so you can tell me Im wrong? Fine. I think maybe you started to feel some rage of your own. Defensive fury. Yeah, you were letting Francine down, but what about what she was doing to you? Lying there silently begging you to turn yourself into a killer, to do something that would haunt you forever-something illegal, apart from anything else. To risk your freedom. You couldnt stand it. Every time you went into her room, it was harder for you. Did you grow to hate her? Feel as if there was no way out?"

Silence from Breary. His eyes flitted about the room, as if trying to locate the source of the words he was hearing. Hed started to tap the floor with his right foot, repet.i.tively.

"If it were me in that situation, Id have felt the pressure building," said Simon. "What can you do? You have to kill her. Youve promised; you know she wants it. Shes trapped. Relying on you. You cant handle the blame youre sure you can see in her eyes every time you look at her, but youre furious too: shes got no right to impose such a . . . destructive obligation on you, destructive not just of her, but of you too-you more. The duty to kill her, your wife, of all people. To rip up your own heart and soul, ignore what you knows right and do the worst thing a person can do. So you have an idea. Its nearly as bad as what youre trying to avoid-maybe its worse, even-but its all you can think of, the only escape route: you murder Francine."

Simon was less convinced this was a possibility now that he was saying it out loud. It sounded deranged. It was deranged. But the effect on Breary was remarkable. He was completely still suddenly, staring at Simon, giving the hypothesis his full attention. That made it worth carrying on.

"You want to kill her for what shes forced you to agree to, so you do," Simon said, feeling the desire to obliterate as he described it. Charlie had once accused him of saving all his pa.s.sion for situations that existed only in his mind; was she right? "Francine expected you to put your principles and your free will into cold storage and do her bidding-something no human being should ever ask of another. When you thought about that, you decided she deserved murder, not mercy. You were pleased to get one over on her. When she saw that pillow coming toward her, she misunderstood. She thought you were keeping your promise, for her sake. At last, she thought. She had no idea you were murdering her-but you knew, and that was enough. You were taking your revenge."

Simon wiped sweat from his upper lip. "Thats why Id have done it if I were you," he said, trying to find a way back to normal interview mode after his outburst. "You dealt with your obligation to your wife, your guilt and your anger in one easy action: a pillow over the face. And its why youll never tell me that what you did was a.s.sisting a suicide, no matter how it might help you-because if it was that, if you say even once that thats what it was, then Francines won, hasnt she? Shes the boss, even in death, and youre weak."

Breary stood up and pulled something out of the elasticated waistband of his prison-issue trousers; the speed of the movement made Simon take a step back, but it was only a folded piece of paper, not a weapon. "Take it," Breary said.

"What is it?"

"Give it to Gaby-Gaby Struthers, Rawndesley Technological Generics. Dont do it when Seans around, the man she lives with. Make sure shes alone."

Simon unfolded the page and saw a handwritten poem, a sonnet. The words "falling in love" leaped out at him; he was too distracted to take in any more. There was nothing to indicate who had written it.

"Im sorry to ask a favor when Ive given you nothing," Breary said.

Was he serious? One look at his face told Simon he was: he wanted Simon to deliver a love poem to a woman. Was it his way of hinting at a motive that so far hadnt been suggested? The name Gaby was a new one to the investigation.

"She might be able to help you," Breary murmured. Simon could only just hear him.

"How?"

"Your answer to that question will be better than any I could give."

Except that Simon didnt have an answer. Will be better, future tense: once hed met Gaby Struthers and found out . . . what? In the meantime, he would happily have settled for Brearys inferior explanation, the one he knew he wouldnt be getting.

"I havent got much imagination, but I recognize and admire it in others," Breary said. "Yours is superhuman. I fooled Francine into believing I was helping her to die while privately, in my mind, I was murdering her? I wouldnt have thought of that if Id tried for a thousand years. And since youre no closer to knowing what I did or didnt do, or why, or why not, youll need to come and see me again and think up more theories. Which will give me something to look forward to." Breary looked away, sighed. "Listen, I know this might be the last thing you want to hear and Im sorry, but . . . I feel irrationally proud to be the subject of your brilliant ideas. And all the more guilty for not being able to help you."

Simon didnt often find himself on the receiving end of admiration. When other people talked about his amazing theories-and, yes, he couldnt deny that he usually turned out to be right-they tended to load their voices with exasperation. Correct, inspired, but still a pain in the a.r.s.e; would be more palatable if he were more ordinary and wrong more often. That was most peoples take on Simon. It felt good to meet the exception.

Even if hes a killer?

Was Tim Brearys flattery, like his lack of motive, part of a carefully crafted campaign to avoid a murder conviction? Or to secure one?

Simon was having trouble thinking straight. Was he, for once, not the cleverest person in the room?

"Will you find Gaby and give her the poem?" Breary asked him.

"Why should I?"

"'Should doesnt come into it. Youll give it to her because I need you to. Because youd keep your wife alive, even if she was brain-dead. Because you can imagine."

Simon waited for Breary to tell him what he could imagine. When no more details were forthcoming, he turned to leave.

"Simon, wait. When you give Gaby the poem . . ."

"I havent said I will." It was only at the beginnings and ends of his sessions with Breary that Simon was made vividly aware of their different circ.u.mstances: in a few minutes, he would step outside, gulp free air into his lungs and drive away, while whichever staffer was stationed outside the parlor would escort Breary to his cell. The idea activated Simons escape reflex every time. He only turned back because hed heard more than words and didnt want to miss the visual clues.

Breary seemed to be chewing and swallowing air; his jaw and Adams apple were working frenetically. It was a few seconds before he was able to speak. "Dont mention my name. Dont tell Gaby the poems from me."

The request was so staggeringly inappropriate, Simon would have felt like a s.a.d.i.s.t if hed pointed it out.

He was still wondering if and how he should respond when Tim Breary said, "Tell her its from The Carrier."

POLICE EXHIBIT 1441B/SK-

COPY OF POEM "SONNET" BY LACHLAN MACKINNON, HANDWRITTEN BY TIMOTHY BREARY. GIVEN BY TIMOTHY BREARY TO DC SIMON WATERHOUSE ON 11/3/2011 AT HMP COMBINGHAM, WITH REQUEST FOR IT TO BE Pa.s.sED BY DC WATERHOUSE TO GABRIELLE STRUTHERS "SONNET"

Suppose there was no great creating Word, That time is infinite. Corollary?

The present moment gives infinity An end, by coming after it. Absurd.

Say the beginning of the world occurred In time, and call that moment moment T, Everything needed for the world to be Was, at the point T minus X. Absurd.

Falling in loves a paradox like this.

Either it happens like a thunderbolt, So when it makes our lives make sense, it lies Or we had long been hoping for the kiss That changed us, and, aware how it would jolt Our beings, we could suffer no surprise.

POLICE EXHIBIT 1433B/SK-

TRANSCRIPT OF HANDWRITTEN LETTER FROM TIMOTHY BREARY TO FRANCINE BREARY DATED 25 DECEMBER 2010.

Dear Francine, It is Christmas Day. If you are the same Francine you have always been, then you will think that since I am your husband and since you are not dead, I ought to give you a Christmas present. I agree. In previous years I have not, but I have changed my mind. The poem in this letter is your present from me this year. It is one of my favorites.

The old Francine would have regarded a transcribed poem as an inadequate gift. For all I know, New Francine might agree. All I can offer in my defense is that, in making my choice, I gave no thought to keeping cost or effort to a minimum. If the world contains a better gift than poetry, I have yet to discover it. (I am not talking about what pa.s.ses for poetry these days-inert chopped-up prose that has no obvious point or inherent music to it. Not that you care about such distinctions, Francine.) I am not going to stuff this letter under your mattress as Kerry would like me to. I shall do what I have always done with the Christmas gifts I have bought you: put it into your hand. I will read it to you first, of course.