"Its an answer. Probably the one most people would come up with."

"Youre not most people. Youre better than most people."

"Then let me hasten to prove my worth," Charlie said sarcastically. "Hindley, the concentration camp guard, all the killers in Tim Brearys books-theyre all distanced from their crimes in a significant way, either by time, or contrition, alleged contrition . . ."

"Which doesnt apply to the killers Tim Breary wasnt reading about." Charlie heard the excitement in Simons voice. "Harold Shipman, the Wests, Saddam Hussein, bin Laden. Shipman was still at it, wasnt he? Only stopped killing when he was caught. Fred West: the same. He and Rose would have carried on, probably, if the police hadnt stopped them."

"Do we know enough about any of these people to be able to say that for sure?" asked Charlie.

"I think so," said Simon. "Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein were both still openly proud of their murderous achievements when they carked it, werent they? They might have found time to fit in a few more murders if theyd lived."

So you dont know for sure, then. Charlie was sensible enough to keep her mouth shut.

"Some murderers will always be murderers," Simon said. "Its how they are. Others you know wont do it again. Pinochet and that n.a.z.i guy-didnt people say about both of them that there was no point making them stand trial now that they were old and infirm?"

"Ive no idea," said Charlie.

"Theyd both been free for years, decades, and not clocked up any new victims," Simon said. "Same with the Lockerbie bomber. Hes been sick and dying and claiming hes innocent for as long as I can remember. His killing days were over long ago, a.s.suming he ever was a killer."

"Myra Hindley," Charlie put her doubts to the back of her mind and joined in. "Contrite, BA Hons, claiming to be a whole new shiny person, that idiot Lord Whatsit lobbying to let her out." She took Simons tea from him and sipped it. He didnt seem to notice. "So . . . what? Tim Breary wanted to kill Francine, but he didnt want to be saddled with the guilt and the blame forever? He wanted to know if it was possible to shake off the taint of evil, once youve done something terrible?"

"No, not the taint of evil, not in himself," said Simon. "This is about trying to detect the presence of evil. Or guilt."

"In who?" Charlie could think of only one possible candidate. "Francine?"

"Hold on. Lets be sure were right about this. Hindleys different from the others in Tim Brearys collection. She never had the chance to prove she wouldnt reoffend if released."

"But . . ."

"But she wouldnt have, would she? No one believed shed have killed or tortured again."

"No. It was the combination of her and Ian Brady that was lethal," said Charlie. "Without him, shed never have done it. Wait, is that another thing theyve got in common, the monsters in Brearys books? The n.a.z.i-did he come out with the old excuse about having to obey orders?"

"What, you mean without Hitler he wouldnt have done it? Probably. Most n.a.z.is who werent ringleaders said afterward that they were just following orders. Pinochets defenders certainly claimed hed never known about the murder and torture his minions had been involved in. The Lockerbie bomber-some people, including him, seem to think he isnt guilty."

Simon turned to face Charlie. "This is about the presence of guilt," he said. "Or the absence of it. Brearys collection of murderers-theyre all people you might argue about: to what extent can they still be blamed? Were they ever evil? Are they still evil now, and just hiding it more successfully than people like Harold Shipman and the Wests?"

"So before Francine had the stroke, she made Tims and everyone elses life a misery," said Charlie.

"But she couldnt have done it without his willing partic.i.p.ation, to go back to your point about it taking two to tango." Simon sounded excited again. "He stayed with her, so how far could she be held individually responsible for whatever happened between them?"

"He was just obeying orders, if we believe Kerry Jose," said Charlie. "Orders he could and should have disobeyed."

"After the stroke, Francine was harmless, powerless, almost unrecognizable, but she was still Francine," Simon said. "Her mind was at least partly intact. Perhaps she was sorry and couldnt say so."

"Theres no reason to a.s.sume she was sorry, is there? Apart from for herself."

"No," said Simon. "Thats the point: Breary didnt know what to think, and he wanted to know. Needed to. The stroke put Francine at a distance from the person she used to be. Breary had no idea if it was still acceptable to have all the same feelings about her that hed had before."

"To want to kill her, you mean?"

"Maybe. Think about it: imagine he had wanted to kill her, before. In his position, could you have done it once shed had the stroke, and been sure you were killing the same person? What if she didnt remember anything from when she and Breary lived together? What if the stroke had affected her mind as radically as it had her body, and she was desperately sorry, but couldnt say so?"

"And you think Breary was looking for answers in his books about monsters who might have stopped being monsters, or who might never have been monsters in the first place?"

"If I had to guess-and this is just a total guess . . ." Simon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "He couldnt forgive Francine. He read those books to see if they could help him decide who was more guilty, him or her. Him for being unable to forgive her even in her weakened, altered state, or her for having been the person she was before the stroke-and maybe still was, until her death. Most people feel their feelings and leave it at that. Not Breary-he a.n.a.lyzes them right down to their tiniest components. That sonnet he gave me for Gaby Struthers, its all about love being a paradox. The poets trying to work out what love is."

"Isnt it freezing your a.r.s.e off in a cold car?" said Charlie. "Thats what I heard."

"Tim Brearys obsessed with love, and with guilt. He wants to understand them both better: his love for Gaby and his blaming of Francine. Big question is: which matters more to him, the love or the hate?"

"Explain?" said Charlie hopefully.

"When he left the Culver Valley and moved west, was it his love for Gaby that drove him away or his hatred for Francine?"

"Dunno. I couldnt have less of a clue if I tried."

"He left them both: love and hate. Then when Francine had her stroke, he moved back to the Culver Valley. Was it his love for Gaby that brought him back, or his loathing of Francine?"

"Thats . . . easier?" said Charlie doubtfully. "Had to be the love, surely? Though Gaby says he didnt contact her at any point. But why come back and look after your invalid wife if you loathe her and youre not even together anymore?"

"Because you can see how easy it would be to kill her," said Simon, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Then, once shes dead and youre unenc.u.mbered, thats when you think about getting in touch with the woman you really love."

"But Tim Breary didnt get in touch with Gaby, even after Francines death. And you dont think he killed Francine," Charlie reminded him.

"I didnt," Simon conceded. "I dont know what I think anymore, except that whatever the f.u.c.ks going on, its stranger and more complicated than anything Ive come across before."

"Well, thats a lucky coincidence," said Charlie, swallowing a sigh. "Stranger and more complicated is exactly what you need. Virtually everyone I meet comments on the disappointing lack of strangeness and complication in your professional life."

"Do they? No, they dont."

"No. They dont."

"This case is all about feelings, Charlie."

Youd better ask to be taken off it, then. She didnt say it; it would have been cruel. Wasnt every case about feelings? Did he mean romantic feelings, specifically? He seemed to have latched on to the idea of Gaby Struthers and Tim Breary as the hero and heroine of a doomed love story; so far, Charlie hadnt had the heart to point out that Breary might want Simon to think precisely that, or to tell him to stop staring at that sodding sonnet as if it was suddenly going to offer up an ingenious solution. Shed been woken at three this morning by Simon switching on his bedside lamp, and had opened her unwilling eyes to find him lying flat on his back and pillowless, holding the poem directly above his face as if to fend off non-existent rain.

Charlie hadnt been able to get back to sleep. Shed been hoping for an earlyish night tonight to compensate. Who am I to judge Lizzie Proust? she thought. Would Lizzie be able to understand Charlie not daring to say, "Im going inside now-I refuse to spend the whole night in the car," in case it broke some kind of spell?

"I should be able to make sense of this case," Simon said. "Im exactly like Breary. I put every emotion under the microscope."

"Even your pa.s.sionate love for me?" Charlie asked, having first put all the usual low expectations in place.

"No. Too big. Wouldnt fit under the lens." Simon smiled at her.

"Excuse me? Could you say that again?"

He turned away. "One day well never see each other again. Do you ever think about that?"

"No. What do you mean?"

"When one of us dies."

"I never, ever think about that."

"I do. All the time. I try not to let it ruin everything," Simon added in a more upbeat tone.

"Well, thats . . . good. I think." Charlie wished shed brought the vodka out to the car. Her heart was doing athletics inside her chest.

"Its not true, is it? Those stupid West Side Story lyrics: 'Even death wont part us now. Yes, it will. It has to. Youre going to be reading out a lie." Simon pushed his seat farther back, put his feet up on the dashboard on either side of the wheel. "Why dont they care about living a lie? Do you think Liv pretends when shes with Dom? Pretends hes Gibbs?"

"In what context?" Charlie asked mock innocently. "You mean when theyre in the supermarket? Or when theyre in a restaurant?" She grinned to herself. She wasnt going to worry about death. At some point-when she was in her late fifties, maybe-she would find a way round it, even if that meant making herself believe in something preposterous.

"You know what I mean," said Simon. "In bed."

There was a time not all that long ago when he wouldnt have been willing to utter those words. As a couple, they were making progress. Amazing progress, actually. Charlie knew she ought to appreciate every step in the right direction, instead of wanting more from him than he could give. "I wish I could tell you Ive no idea, but sadly I know the answer," she said. "Livs tried pretending, but it doesnt work. Dom and Gibbs are too different, technique-wise. I can provide more detail if youd like me to, but Id advise against. Spare yourself. Its too late for me, but you can still escape."

"I pretend," Simon said almost inaudibly.

Charlie was in no doubt about what shed heard. "Is that why were sitting in a dark car?" she asked evenly. She was getting good at keeping her feelings out of her voice. "So you cant see me? Will that make the pretense easier, when we get into bed?"

"Dont be stupid. I didnt mean that. It came out wrong."

Ah. My entire life knows how that feels.

"I dont mean I pretend youre someone else. Why would I? Theres no one else I want to be with."

Charlie waited. Was this going to be another brilliant/s.h.i.t thing, in the tradition of "I love you but were both doomed to die"?

"Im talking about me," he said.

"You mean . . ." Charlie stopped to check: insane, yes, but there were no other possibilities. "You mean you pretend youre someone else?"

Simon said nothing.

"Who?" f.u.c.king f.u.c.k f.u.c.k. Was that a cra.s.s question? Charlie knew Simon well enough to know that no name would be forthcoming.

Gordon Ramsay? Nick Clegg? Colin Sellers? Ugh, please not.

"No one real, just . . . I dont know. A physical manifestation of no one or nothing. A symbolic figure without an appearance, standing in for me. I can only carry on if I never think about it being me. If I let myself see it as a scene Im part of, thats when it doesnt go well."

This is where you tell him that a shrink he once met has a theory that neatly explains everything thats wrong with him: its the perfect opportunity.

"Do you think that makes me a freak?" Simon asked.

"No." I think it makes you someone with a common but rarely diagnosed psychological condition. If I tell you its name, youll never be able to get it out of your mind. Trust me, I know. Emotional incest syndrome. You can call it EIS if you prefer, or CIS: covert incest syndrome. Can you cure it, though? If not, whats the point of knowing you suffer from it? What if it only makes you feel more like a freak?

To prove to herself that she was nothing like Lizzie Proust, Charlie said, "You need to tell Sam everything you havent told him. The sonnet, everything Gaby Struthers told Gibbs, the lot." There, see? Im not scared of telling my husband things he doesnt want to hear if Im sure he needs to hear them.

"What?" Simon sounded surprised. Not angry, thankfully. "Wheres that come from?"

"Im not preaching forgiveness," said Charlie. "This is about the proper rules of compet.i.tion. Getting there first only counts for something if youre both starting from the same point. Why dont you blindfold Sam and lock him in a cupboard? That way youll definitely find the answer before he does."

"Thats how you see it?"

"Its how it might look to others, definitely."

Simon swore under his breath. Then some more. It was what he always did when he realized he was wrong and Charlie was right.

- It might as well be the middle of the night, Sam thought as he walked out through the double doors of the police station into the car park. Spilling was well known for being silent and deserted even on weekend evenings; people who wanted nightlife went to Rawndesley. And tended not to live in staid, respectable Spilling in the first place.

Sam loved the silence and the calm, though in certain company he pretended to find it stifling. He looked at his watch: ten oclock. His wife, Kate, would be pleased to see him home before eleven, when hed told her to expect him. Privately, he had hoped to be home by ten and therefore a.s.sumed hed never manage it. "Rounding up to the nearest disappointment," Kate called it.

Exchanges like the one hed just had with Proust were eroding Sams spirit. He would hand in his notice as soon as hed sorted things out with Simon. He couldnt leave with the situation as it was between them. He hadnt admitted to Kate how bad he felt about Simons unsubtle and wholehearted rejection of him as a friend and colleague. How could he explain it? It was as if his heart had something heavy pressing on it. Kate would laugh at him if he told her how empty and insubstantial Simons disdain made him feel-thats if he was lucky. The scarier possibility was that Kate would ring Simon and yell at him, which Sam couldnt risk. If that happened, hed have to resign from the planet Earth, not merely from Culver Valley Police.

"Resignation season again, is it?" Kate had been saying lately, as if it were all a big joke. Sam didnt mind her teasing him. He found it comforting; how bad could things be if she was giggling about it? She didnt believe hed ever hand in his notice; soon she would see how wrong she was. Sam resolved never to tell her that it was a helpful hint from Charlie this afternoon that had finally made up his mind.

He knew what shed say: "For G.o.ds sake, Sam, youre playing right into her hands. She wasnt trying to help you at all. Shes done this deliberately to undermine your confidence and make you think you need to slink off in disgrace because youre such a rubbish detective. Youre not, by the way, and I cant believe youd trust Charlies motives further than you can throw them. Yesterday she told you she regretted walking out of her job and leaving it open for you; now shes hoping youll be good enough and spineless enough to return the favor. Which is exactly what you mustnt do. You dont even know shes right. Its a hunch, thats all. Like all hunches, its more likely to be wrong."

Sam felt his face heat up as he realized hed been talking to himself inside his head, writing Kates lines in their imaginary dialogue, the words he desperately wanted and needed to hear. Pathetic. And unfair to Charlie, who, Sam believed, had genuinely been trying to help him: not to rescue his lackl.u.s.ter career as an also-ran, but to heal the rift with Simon. "I shouldnt be giving you this," shed said, pressing a folded sheet of white A4 paper into Sams hand. "Im on a mission to persuade Simon to stop being a k.n.o.b and start talking to you again, but in the meantime . . ."

"What is it?" Sam had asked.

"A poem. Simon went to Combingham to see Tim Breary yesterday. Breary gave it to him, asked him to pa.s.s it on to Gaby Struthers. Breary and Struthers are both members of the Proscenium Library in Rawndesley-a library that has the biggest and best collection of poetry books, past and present, in the Western Hemisphere. Apparently."

"What?" Sam had asked. Charlie was staring at him in a peculiar way, as if waiting for him to realize something.

"That poem might be in a book in the Proscenium, dont you think?" shed said eventually. "Given their exhaustive collection."

"I suppose so. What are you getting at?"

"Read the poem," Charlie said. "Its very ambiguous-no clear message. I cant see why Breary would want it pa.s.sed on to Gaby Struthers. On the surface, it reads like a love poem, but its not, not really. So maybe its not about the poem itself and what its saying-maybe thats not the intended message. What if Breary wants Gaby to go to the library and find the relevant page of the relevant book? Obviously its a long shot, but-"

"You think hes left a message for her in the book?" Sam asked.

"Not really," said Charlie cheerfully. "But if you have that idea in front of Simon, h.e.l.l be impressed, and more likely to forgive you. Just dont tell him I gave you the poem, if you can possibly avoid it, or h.e.l.l have my head on a spike."

Sam had been excited until hed realized how utterly humiliating it was: Charlie giving him ideas that he could pretend were his own. It had been the signal he couldnt ignore that it was time for him to move on.

Before he went, he would do a version of what shed suggested: he would have her idea in front of Simon if and only if he could prove it to be worth having. First thing Monday, he would go to the Proscenium and see if he could track down the sonnet, even though he was certain that the successful closing of this case wasnt going to depend on clues hidden in books, but, rather, on successfully interpreting the complex web of relationships and secrets at the Dower House.

Sam would have loved to hear Simons angle on it. Alone, he couldnt work it out. No, it was more than that: he couldnt work out whether there was anything to work out. Maybe the story of the Brearys, the Joses and Gaby Struthers was no more abnormal than most peoples life stories. Look at Gibbs and Olivia Zailer; look at Sellers and his one-hour stands in cheap B&Bs with any woman under the age of sixty whod have him. And Simon, whod asked Charlie to marry him when they were no more than colleagues-ones who had never dated, never slept together. And Charlie had said yes. Crazy, all of it.

So perhaps it wasnt so remarkable that Tim Breary had been unhappy with his wife, and in love with Gaby Struthers, but had decided to stay in his miserable marriage despite there being no children to keep him there. Sam reminded himself that he only knew what Dan and Kerry Jose had told him. Mainly Kerry; she did most of the talking for the two of them. Knowing firsthand how bad a liar she was, Sam had believed her on this occasion. Shed told the story naturally and effortlessly.

After ordering Gaby to give up on him, Tim Breary did exactly what hed insisted he never would or could: he left Francine, didnt tell Gaby, jacked in his job, abandoned the Joses and the Culver Valley and moved to a squalid bedsit in Bath. Several months later he tried to kill himself, except he undermined his suicide attempt by summoning Dan and Kerry to rescue him. Which they did, both locally and more generally: they rang an ambulance and got Tim the medical attention he needed, and shortly afterward they abandoned their jobs in order to look after him practically, emotionally and financially. They were happy to do it, Kerry said-all of it. They no longer needed their salaries; thanks to Tim, and to Gaby Struthers, they had recently become extremely wealthy.

Tim was adamant that he wouldnt go back to the Culver Valley because it contained Francine, so Kerry and Dan bought a barn conversion near Kemble, in the Cotswolds. Kerry had shown Sam photos, pressing her hand against her heart and becoming tearful as she talked about her former home and how shed hated having to leave it.