Why didnt you tell me, Lauren? Im sorry I was so rude and horrible to you. Really sorry, but . . . why didnt you trust me, instead of following me all the way to Germany only to lose your nerve?

"Gaby? You okay?"

I tell Dan Im fine and focus on the physical details of the room. I dont expect it to tell me anything helpful, but I look anyway. A wall of built-in wardrobes, two bedside tables, a lamp on one of them. No books. A pine bed with a pale pink flowery bedspread; drawers underneath, built into its frame, all open. Three cuddly toys-a bear with a heart for a nose, a duck and an owl-are sitting on the pillows, leaning against the headboard. There are clothes scattered on the floor on both sides of the bed, mainly thongs in various colors on what must be Laurens side. On Jasons, theres a white T-shirt, a pair of jeans, a few socks and a ripped silver condom packet.

"I dont think Lauren and Jason would want you in here, Gaby." Dan approaches me tentatively, as if were at the zoo and Im a lion on the loose.

"You all sleep within a few feet of one another? How cozy: you and Kerry, Tim, Lauren and revolting Jason, all sleeping symmetrically behind your symmetrical closed doors. And Francine, before she died."

"Francine had a room on the ground floor," says Dan. "Not that it matters. What do you care where we all sleep?"

"I dont," I tell him. "Convenient for you, though. Do you all meet on the landing at midnight every night, make sure you know all your lies by heart?"

"I think you should leave, if youre going to be like this."

"Im not leaving until Ive seen Tims room. Where is it?"

"No."

I a.s.sume that the door Dan has hurried over to block with his body is the one I want.

"Kerry and I dont go in there and its our house. Our cleaners dont even go in there. Tim prefers to clean it himself. Thats how much he values his privacy."

"Sometimes," I say. "Other times, hes happy to sign up for a lifetime of s.h.i.tting in front of his cell mate, in a shared toilet with no door, and having prison warders stare at him through bars whenever they want to, as if hes a monkey in a cage."

I see the effect my words are having on Dan and press home my advantage. "Id say I value Tims privacy a whole lot more than he does at the moment-and his happiness, and his freedom. Havent you let the police into his room since all this happened, come to think of it? How many times?"

Dan sighs and stands to one side. "Dont touch anything," he says.

I swear under my breath and open the door. Soon as Im in, I pick up a book from one of the piles on the floor beside the bed and wave it in the air, to show Dan that I intend to ignore his no-touching rule. Having made my point, Im about to put the book back when I notice what it is: e. e. c.u.mmings Selected Poems 19231958. A strong jerk-back sensation takes hold of my body, as if my blood vessels are reins and someones tugged them taut, pulling me away from the brink.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) Did Tim first read the poem in this book? If I look at the index of first lines, will I find it?

I mustnt look. If I read that poem now, in front of Dan, Ill fall apart.

"Are you okay, Gaby?" His voice seems to come from a million miles away.

Why do people ask that? Its such a pointless question. Whats "okay"? Im still able to stand up and breathe; I think thats pretty good going. I think Im doing better than okay.

"I need to take this book," I tell Dan.

"No!"

I recoil at the sound of his raised voice. Dan Jose doesnt yell. Ever. Then I realize its himself hes angry with, not me. Hes embarra.s.sed by his inability to take control of the situation. He has given an inch, several inches, and now I want to take a poetry book.

"Its Tims book," he says.

"Im taking it. Tim wouldnt mind. You know he wouldnt."

Dan stares out at the view that was Tims before he had himself moved to HMP Combingham: a vast expanse of green and then Lower Heckencott Hall beyond, in the distance. Its impressive, but thats not why Dans looking at it. He doesnt want to have to see what Im doing. Hes used up all his arguing energy and decided the best thing he can do is avert his eyes and let me get on with it.

I look around the room. I am in Tims bedroom for the first time. Only Tims; nothing to do with Francine. I want to stay in here forever. I want to examine each of his possessions in detail, but Ive frozen. This is too important. Im looking but not seeing; my minds too jittery to process the visual data.

Calm down, for f.u.c.ks sake.

Its smaller than Lauren and Jasons bedroom, though still a large room. Theres a single bed pushed up against one wall. The sight of it makes me angry. "Single beds are for children," I say. "Tims a grown man in his mid-forties."

"His choice," says Dan. "Kerry tried to persuade him to get a double, but he insisted."

The pillow and duvet are white. Theres no headboard, no bedside table, two tall piles of books by the side of the bed. A wardrobe, a desk and an office-style swivel chair, a leather armchair in the corner. I walk over to the desk and look at the spotless stack of notepaper, the pile of matching envelopes, three pens that look expensive. It all looks brand-new and untouched. I flinch, thinking that Tim might have bought these things because he wanted to write to people who arent me.

Or he bought them because he wanted to write to me. Desperately. But didnt know how, or what to say, and so never did.

My scientists mind points out that there is no evidence to support my preferred theory, so I mustnt allow myself to believe it.

On the wall there are poems-unframed, Blu-Tacked-that look as if theyve been cut out of magazines: George Herbert, Yeats, Robert Frost, Wendy Cope, someone called Nic Aubury. His poem-or hers, if Nic is short for Nicola-is only four lines long.

"THE SOMMELIER AND SOME LIAR"

Knowledgeable-nonchalant, I tell the waiter, "Fine,"

When really what Im thinking is, "Im fairly sure its wine."

I smile. Tears snake down my cheeks from the outer corners of my eyes.

Whats going to happen to me, without Tim? With Tim in prison for . . . how long?

"Dan," I whisper.

"What?"

"I need Tim not to be locked up. You have to help me."

"Gaby, I . . . Jesus!" Dan leans his forehead against the windowpane. He might be crying too. "Ive done everything I can, trust me."

"Before, when Tim and I were apart, it was okay, I could live with it. . . ."

"You live with someone else," Dan says accusingly.

"Sean. Yes. Is that supposed to be proof of my disloyalty to Tim? You know what happened. Id have left Sean like a shot."

"I know." Dan holds up his hands. "I didnt mean it to come out like that."

"I always knew that if I wanted to find Tim, I could. He didnt want me, hed made that clear, and I could live with it, as long as I knew that he was there, out there, reachable when I was ready to try again. To persuade him hed made a mistake. I hadnt given up, Dan. I was . . . waiting." Procrastinating. Treading water in my relationship with Sean until I felt the time was right to approach Tim again.

If Id been pregnant, Id have done it. It would have been the perfect excuse to contact him: Look, Ive got exciting news! Im having Seans baby, Im no threat to your marriage anymore, please can we be friends?

Id have lied through my teeth to trick my way back into Tims life. Hes not the kind of man who would tell a pregnant woman to f.u.c.k off and leave him alone.

And you knew that when you came off the pill, didnt you?

"Dan, if Tims convicted of murder-"

"What? Itll ruin your happy-ending fantasy?"

"f.u.c.k you!" Did Lauren feel the way I feel now when she laid into Bodo Neudorf at Dsseldorf Airport? Desperate, out of control?

"Im sorry," Dan murmurs. "I really am, Gaby. Youre not the only one, you know. We all . . ." He cant finish his sentence.

I aim a brittle smile in his direction. "Things seem to go wrong when we try to talk, so lets not bother."

Dan shrugs: whatever you want. The easy way out. "You all done in here?" he asks.

Panic starts to build inside me. All done. Ive seen what there is to see. I want to linger, but how can I justify it? What else is there for me to do in here? Dan is plainly eager to get me out.

If I asked Kerry to let me stay for a few days-here, in Tims room, in his bed-is there even the tiniest chance shed say yes? Until I have time to sort myself out with a rented flat, maybe a week, two at the most?

Yeah, right. Kerry cut off all contact with you so as not to bring Tims past into his present. Shes really going to a.s.sign you his bedroom without his permission.

"I think youve seen enough, Gaby." Dans mouth is a hard line.

I nod.

He gestures toward the landing. "You first." He wont leave me alone in the room, not even for a few seconds. His eyes are blank; the shutters have gone up.

"Tim wouldnt treat me like this if he were here," I say. I am not someone who gives up. At work, I have a reputation for laying waste to every problem that crosses my path. "Hed welcome me in, show me his books, read me extracts from his favorite poems."

"I think you were right before," says Dan, looking away. "We shouldnt talk about this, and Im not comfortable that were still in Tims room. Shall we-"

"No! Wait." I kneel down beside the two piles of books next to Tims bed. How could I have forgotten to look at his twin poetry towers? Poetry is all Tims ever been interested in reading. "The second-most-important thing in my world, after you," he once said to me. I laughed and asked him if hed really said it or if Id imagined it. "You imagined it," he told me with a smile. "But thats okay. Its what I would have said, if I were the sort to get carried away. And Ive made nearly a whole personality out of your imaginings of me." For the forty-three thousandth time since wed met, I asked him what he meant. "Youre an inventor," he said, as if it should be obvious. "Youve invented me."

Wrong, Tim. It was the other way round. Why can you never take credit for anything?

Unless its something you havent done, and something horrific, like murder. Then you can.

I lift a book off the top of one of the piles. Selected Poems by James Fenton.

"Gaby . . ." Dan tries to pull me away.

I shake him off. My eyes make their way down the tower, spine by spine, t.i.tle by t.i.tle. Minus the e. e. c.u.mmings that Ive taken, there are only four collections of poetry here. Theres a voice in my head thats whispering in protest before Ive worked out whats wrong; it takes me a few seconds to catch up with it. "What are all these?" I ask Dan. "Where did they come from?"

The rest of the books are about monsters: Myra Hindley, General Augusto Pinochet, a n.a.z.i war criminal called Demjanjuk. Theres one about the Libyan Lockerbie bomber.

This isnt right. Ive never felt as strange as I do at this moment: as if I pulled on my mind in a hurry this morning, and Ive only just realized Ive been wearing it inside out all this time.

I look up at Dan. "Tim doesnt read books like this. What are they doing in his room?"

"Are you accusing me of planting them to make him look like a killer?"

Dans one of the most intelligent people Ive ever met. He knows the difference between an accusation and a simple question. Has he forgotten that Im clever too?

Time to remind him. "Instead of falling into your distraction trap and wasting my time denying a phony charge, Ill ask again: why is Tims bedroom full of books about murderers?"

Dans the one who looks trapped: desperate to turn his back on me and make his escape, but unwilling to relinquish any territory.

Is there something else in here that Im not supposed to see, something besides the books? Is that why I must be supervised for as long as Im in here?

The kernel of resolve inside me is growing bigger and harder, colonizing more and more of me, leaving hardly any s.p.a.ce for breathing or rational thought. Ill ask the questions I need to ask, all of them, whether Im rewarded with answers or not. "Are these books part of Tims Im-a-murderer act, for the benefit of the police?" Even as Im suggesting it, I dont believe it. If Tim wanted to make himself look guilty, all hed have needed to do was type the words "Best way to kill wife" into Google. Why buy books about Chilean dictators and n.a.z.i death-camp guards? What connection could they possibly have with something as domestic as putting a pillow over your wifes face and smothering her?

I pick up the book about the Lockerbie bomber. Its called You Are My Jury.

"Gaby, put that down, please."

"Whats going on, Dan? What does Tim having these books in his bedroom mean?"

Dan shakes his head as if to say, "Sorry, no answer."

But there is an answer, here, now, in the room with us, though I have no idea what it is. I can feel its presence in Dans mind-silent, stationary, ready to go; wondering how long the wait will be. Like a pa.s.senger trapped at a boarding gate with no plane to board.

I cant bear it. Have to get away.

I do my best to look as if Im not running away as I leave the room, walk down the stairs and out of the house, into an external world of unexpected and implausible sunlight.

12.

11/3/2011.

"Thats it." Kerry Jose rested her elbows on the mess on the table, held her neck between the palms of her hands and rubbed the back of her bowed head with her fingertips. "Thats all I can tell you. The only person who can fill in the blanks is Tim, and Im not sure even he can."

"Not knowing why he killed Francine, you mean?" said Charlie.

Kerry nodded.

"You believe that?"

"How long will he have to stay in prison?"

Charlie smiled. "You dodged my question. And I cant answer yours, Im afraid. I dont know."

"Whats the average? For people who confess and help the police, like Tim?" Kerry stumbled over her words in her haste to get them out. "Hes never done anything wrong before, never been in any trouble of any kind until now."