"I dont know," said Cuffley. "Not long. Few minutes."

"Why didnt you also tell Lauren?"

"She wasnt there."

"You could have phoned her. Or gone round to see her-its not far, is it, from your house to the Dower House?"

Cuffley shrugged.

"You asked me before if Id let you tell Lauren, and I said no," Sam reminded him. "You could have told her yourself, anytime between when you killed Jason and when you turned yourself in. Why didnt you?"

"I dont know. I just didnt. Ive got a few questions for you." Cuffley jabbed his finger at Sam. "Did Tim Breary kill his wife or not? Lauren wont tell me whats going on, but I know somethings not right. Did Jason kill her?"

This Sam had not been expecting. He opened his mouth, but Wayne Cuffley was on a roll. "Why did Lauren end up in Germany and then miss her flight back, so that I had to pay for another one? And whos Gaby Struthers?"

"Tim Brearys been charged with Francines murder," Sam said neutrally. "Do you have any reason to think he might be innocent?"

"No, but I know Laurens not been right since Francine died. She wont tell me what its all about. Clams up whenever I ask."

And when I do. "Why did you ask who Gaby Struthers is?" said Sam. "Youve met her. You knew who she was before she introduced herself."

"I know f.u.c.k all about her apart from she met Lauren at an airport and ha.s.sled her, wouldnt leave her alone. And shes posh and up herself-thats what Lauren said when she rang in hysterics from Germany: Gaby Struthers, a snooty b.i.t.c.h. Laurens s.h.i.t-scared of her, but she wont tell me why. She said shed come looking for her at the Dower House, and she did. Thats got to be something to do with Francine Breary."

"I cant discuss the case with you," Sam told him. Cuffleys questions had put a new one in his mind. "Why were you at the Dower House on Friday, when you met Gaby? You must have known Lauren wasnt back yet if youd booked her flight home."

Cuffley closed his eyes, shook his head. "I was f.u.c.king stupid. Lauren was in such a state about this Gaby Struthers, I couldnt get any sense out of her. I thought Jason might know who she was, and what Lauren was doing in Germany. Course, Lauren hadnt said anything about anything to him, so I f.u.c.ked up there. I should have realized she was ringing me because she couldnt ring him, because he didnt know."

"He was angry?" Sam asked.

"He didnt want to lose his cool in front of me, but I could see what was going on underneath," said Cuffley. "He could barely keep it together. Guy was a psycho-same since he was eight years old."

"Eight?" said Sam, surprised.

"We were at primary school together. And secondary."

"What did he say when you told him about Gaby Struthers?"

"I never did," said Cuffley. "I only got as far as asking why Lauren was in Germany. Jason stared at me like he didnt have a clue what I meant. Then he walked off, saying he was going to ring her. I shouted after him did he want me to pick her up from the airport. He said no, hed do it. The way he said it, it didnt sound right. I nearly went to the airport but . . ." Cuffley stopped. Shrugged. "Its not like he was going to start smacking her about in the Arrivals Hall, is it? What good would I do by going there? I couldnt stop him taking her home." He smiled suddenly, as if he and Sam were on the same side. "Ive stopped him now, though."

"Where were you on Wednesday, the sixteenth of February?" Sam asked him.

"That when Francine died? I was working. Lauren was lucky: Id have been working on Friday if I hadnt taken the week off to redecorate the front room. I wouldnt have been able to sort out her flight for her."

"Whats your job?"

"Delivery driver. For Portabas."

"Which is . . . ?"

"Courier company."

"Im going to need to contact them," said Sam.

"You think I killed Francine? Why would I ask what was going on if I knew Id killed her?"

Sams questions were different: why would Cuffley have wanted to murder Francine? What motive could he possibly have had? "You said something interesting to Gaby Struthers at the Dower House on Friday. You said, 'Never bulls.h.i.t a bulls.h.i.tter. What did you mean by that?"

Cuffley ignored the question and asked one of his own instead: "Is there a chance Jason could have done it?"

"Killed Francine Breary?" said Sam. "Why do you ask?"

"If he did it, I want it made public." Cuffley lifted his head, looked past Sam as if imagining a bigger audience. "I want the world to know I did us all a favor," he said.

23.

SUNDAY, 13 MARCH 2011.

Tim. Tim Breary, standing in front of me.

He doesnt seem big enough, somehow. No, thats wrong. Not what I mean.

His face . . . Is it a face that can explain everything I feel? I used to be sure it was, but after all this time . . .

This isnt an emotional response Im having, its an a.s.sault: so many sensations screaming in the air that dont feel like mine. I dont recognize their harshness, cant get a firm hold on any one of them. All I can do is stand here as they whirl around me in a thick storm, cutting me off from my surroundings. Im closer to Tim and farther away from myself than Ive been for a long time.

"I cant believe youre here," he says.

I listen for clues in the silence that follows his words. Who were you then, Tim? Who are you now?

"Gaby?"

I open my bag, pull out the Valentines card with the e. e. c.u.mmings poem in it.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) "Who was The Carrier?" I ask Tim.

Counting the seconds before he answers: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . .

"Me."

"No. You didnt send me this card. Kerry did."

"Me," he says again. "Im The Carrier, Gaby. I wished Id sent it. As soon as I knew about it, I wished Id thought of it. Kerry sent it on my behalf, but Im The Carrier. You must see that. I do carry your heart, Gaby. I always have."

"It was stupid of me to believe it could have been you," I say. "I suppose we believe what we want to believe, right?"

"Please sit down." Tim edges toward the door, as if to block it. He thinks I might walk out.

There are chairs: comfortable ones. What is this room? Its not how I imagined a prison would be.

I sit. "I didnt work it out until I went to the Dower House and found the e. e. c.u.mmings book in your room. Id read the poem hundreds of times in the card, but it was different when I saw it printed in a book. I thought about all the other poems Id read in books, all the ones youd shown me, and I realized the card couldnt have come from you. Theres no way youd have chosen that poem."

"'And its you are whatever a moon has always meant / and whatever a sun will always sing is you," Tim quotes. "'And this is the wonder thats keeping the stars apart // I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)."

He sits down opposite me. He could have come closer. Could be touching me now. Theres a free chair next to me.

Simon Waterhouse is outside. Our invisible chaperone. Francine always used to play that role.

This is too strange.

I dont want poetry quoted at me. I want Tims arms around me. I want to claw at his face in fury. Jason Cookson wouldnt have come after me if Lauren hadnt followed me to Germany. That happened because of Tim: the worst thing thats ever happened to me.

Im not going to say any of that. Im going to talk about a poem instead.

"Its nonsense," I say. "Moons dont mean anything. Suns dont sing, the stars arent kept apart by wonder. The poem you asked Simon Waterhouse to give me-thats much more your style: literal. If a poet has something important to say, he says it as simply as he can. Remember?"

Tim nods.

I open the card. My turn to quote. "'To Gaby, I love you. Happy Valentines Day, with love from The Carrier. Those words were written by Kerry. Not you."

She knew Id think youd sent the card. She knew Id respond in kind and declare my love. She wasnt trying to help you say what you were too timid to say-she was trying to force a crisis that would break us up. And she succeeded: if there had been no card from The Carrier, I wouldnt have rushed to your office and told you I loved you too. You wouldnt have confided in me about your dream, I wouldnt have gone to Switzerland looking for clues. . . . You wouldnt have panicked and told me to get away from you and stay out of your life.

"I should have told you the truth," Tim says. "I know that, I just . . . what could I say? Id have sounded pathetic: 'Actually, its from one of my friends, but coincidentally, that is how I feel about you."

"Did you know Kerry had done it?"

"Dan told me as soon as it was too late to undo. Kerry was too embarra.s.sed to tell me herself. I dont know why she expected me to be angry. I was grateful for her impatience. She knew how I felt about you. Better than I did."

He believes she did it with the best possible motive. Of course.

"Turns out my literal style isnt suited to realistic human emotions." Tim smiles sadly. "Turns out moons do mean something. Suns do sing."

Feelings. More feelings. Ive got too many of my own to deal with without adding Tims to the mix. What Im short of is facts.

"So," I say. "Who elses handiwork have you taken credit for, more recently? Whose burden of guilt has The Carrier been carrying?"

"I killed Francine, Gaby."

"Lauren doesnt think so. Neither does Simon Waterhouse. Neither do I."

"Lauren?" Tim looks at me as if Ive said something blasphemous. "You trust her more than you trust me?"

I dont want to have to answer that question. Love and trust arent the same thing.

"Tell me, then: why did you do it?"

Uncertainty flickers in his eyes. Then he forces it aside. "I told the police I didnt have a reason, but that wasnt true."

"Nothing youre saying is true, Tim. I know you didnt kill Francine." I open my bag, take out a piece of paper. "My poem for you," I say, handing it to him.

"'Lied to like a judge I stepped down," he reads aloud. "'My court cleared to the shrieks of the set free. / I know the truth, I know its level sound. / It didnt speak, or didnt speak to me. Glyn Maxwell, 'The Sentence." He smiles. "Good choice."

If I smile back at him, will that change the course of the conversation? Of the rest of our lives? Will he relax, see who I really am and tell me the truth, or take it as a sign that Im willing to live with the lie and pretend it isnt one? Two roads diverged in a yellow wood . . .

Who really are you, Gaby Struthers? Are you someone who can promise youll still love him once you know what hes hiding from you, whatever it turns out to be?

Who, really, is Tim Breary? Do you know? What if its an unattainable fantasy youre in love with and not the flesh-and-blood man in front of you.

"Gaby, you have to believe me." He leans forward. "I killed Francine. I picked up a pillow, pressed it down over her face and smothered her. I had a motive-one I didnt tell the police because it wont help me get out of here any quicker. Im willing to be punished, but that doesnt mean I need to add years to my sentence by admitting why. Theres nothing admirable about my reasons for doing what I did, and theyre no ones business but mine. And yours. I killed Francine because Ive wanted to for a long time. Ever since I told you I never wanted to see you again."

I can hear how much he wants what hes saying to be true. I still dont believe him.

"I cant explain why I waited years, or why I chose that particular day. Maybe I got tired of not listening to my instincts, not doing what I wanted to do. There was no particular catalyst." He sounds as if hes reading from a script.

"You dont have to lie to me," I say. I hate it when people with choices imagine they dont have a choice.

And when people who could leave their wives, or be unfaithful to them if they really wanted to, pretend that they cant?

"Gaby, listen." Tim sits down beside me, takes my hand. My body buzzes as if in response to an electric current. I want him to kiss me.

I dont mind what the truth is. If he killed Francine, I will still love him. If he didnt kill her but did something worse that hes trying to hide, Ill still love him. Same difference.

"It wasnt only the dream," he says, his breathing fast and ragged around the words. "That day at the Proscenium, the last time we saw each other . . . you were so excited about working out what it meant. I didnt want to know. Living with my suspicions and a recurring nightmare was bad enough. I thought knowing for sure would be worse."

"It wont be. You can still know for sure."

He carries on as if I havent spoken. "Next thing I know youre telling me youve been to Switzerland, to Leukerbad . . ."

"I shouldnt have done that, not without telling you," I say.

"Im glad you did. Now. Then, I couldnt get past the dread-of finding out what the dream meant, of course, but it was more than that. Youd gone all the way to Switzerland for me. That was how much you loved me, how important I was to you, and there I was: trapped in a miserable marriage that, yes, Im well aware any other man would have walked out of without a backward glance, but I knew I never could. I never would have, Gaby."

But you did. Am I missing something?

"You knew I loved you long before I told you about going to Switzerland."

"I thought I did," Tim says. "When I heard youd gone all the way to Leukerbad for my sake, it . . . I dont know, it kind of brought it home to me. How strongly you must have felt about me."

"You keep saying 'all the way. All the way to Leukerbad, all the way to Switzerland, as if its New Zealand or something. Id go to Leukerbad for a lunch or a spa treatment if there were good ones to be had. And if your dream had been set in New Zealand, Id have gone there. Flyings nothing to me. I do it five times a week."

Tim sighs. I wish I could tell myself that I dont mean to give him a hard time, and believe myself. Part of me wants to make him suffer, pay him back for all the pain hes caused me.