"Is there anyone apart from me whose recurring dream youd fly even to London Heathrow to investigate?" he asks. "Or take a break in your busy schedule to think about for five minutes?"

"No."

He looks relieved. We understand each other again.

"Gaby, what we had . . . it was the best part of my life without a doubt, but it wasnt real. It was the perfect fantasy. That day, when you told me about going to Switzerland, I thought, no, I dont want this, its too much. I dont want to know if Francine tried to kill me. Or the guilt of knowing you love me more than you should. Id let things go too far, and there was no future in it. For both of our sakes, I had to get you away from me and make you stay away."

"Dont pretend anything you did was for my sake, Tim," I say carefully. Stop, a voice in my head commands. If I dont stop, the bitterness will pour out of me like lava from a volcano. It could destroy everything.

Tim rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. "Youre right. Want to know what I really thought?"

Yes. Also, if you really murdered your wife.

"For years the dream had been bothering me and Id done nothing about it. Taken no steps to find out what it meant, just hoped itd go away. Even though I knew it never would. It still hasnt. And you, a few days after hearing the story, you hop on a plane to Switzerland, and you come back saying youve found the answer! It scared me, Gaby. I thought, if she can do that, she can make me leave Francine, and eventually she will."

"Only if youd wanted to," I say, hurt by what I think hes accusing me of.

"I did want to, more than Ive ever wanted anything," Tim says. "The temptation was getting too dangerous. You think I didnt know what a coward I was? I knew, Gaby. I knew that if I didnt force you away from me, youd grow to hate me like I hated myself. Why wouldnt I leave a woman I didnt love? We didnt have any children together. What made me think I had to stay? Only the dream? Did I think Francine would hunt me down and kill me, do the job properly second time round?"

I wish I could answer that question.

And the rest.

"You might not want to hear this, but if Id known how Id feel as soon as Id told you we were finished, I think Id have been able to do it. Leave her. I did, very soon afterward, when I realized that aching to kill her wasnt a feeling that was going to go away." Tim looks at me to check Im taking in what hes saying. "I was never happy with her, but after I lost you . . ."

"You didnt lose me. You threw me away."

Tim tries again. "After that day when we . . . said good-bye, my feelings toward Francine changed. Instantly. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside me. I couldnt have imagined what a strong urge to kill someone felt like until I experienced it myself. All my energy was going into making sure it didnt happen. I couldnt eat, couldnt sleep, couldnt work. Have you ever wanted to kill someone? No, not wanted to-known youre going to? That its just a matter of when, because, ultimately, you cant stop yourself and actually its the only thing you want or care about?"

The only person I want to kill is already dead: Jason Cookson.

"I left Francine to save her life," Tim says.

"Why didnt you tell me? If you werent with Francine, you could have been with me. Why didnt you make contact?" If I were playing fair, I would warn him that I wont find his answer acceptable, whatever it might be.

He tries to smile, but it doesnt take. "Youd have told me to f.u.c.k right off, wouldnt you?"

I force myself to wait a few seconds before speaking.

"How can you think that? You dont think it-its an excuse."

"Yes, you would, Gaby. Your pride wouldnt have allowed you to do anything else. I knew you were way out of my league: Gaby Struthers the genius, the brilliant success story. Whereas I was a nondescript accountant who was one day going to kill his wife."

"You couldnt be nondescript if you tried," I tell him, knowing it will make no difference to how he feels about himself.

"I never wanted to be a murderer," he says quietly. "I moved halfway across the country to try and make sure I didnt become one. Tried to kill myself instead of Francine, but that didnt work. I chickened out and rang Kerry and Dan, soon as Id done it. I didnt want to die, Gaby-only because of you. Id given up on our ever being together, but I knew I couldnt leave a world that had you in it."

Yet you did nothing. You let me think you and Francine were still together, all those years.

"Why did you go back when Francine had the stroke?" I ask.

"I wanted to be closer to you. If she was bedridden, an invalid . . ."

"What? What, Tim?"

He sighs. "If I no longer had to be scared of her, then I no longer had to be scared of you-the danger that Id leave her for you. What could she do, lying in a bed, unable to move or speak?"

"But you didnt make contact. You were back in the Culver Valley, Francine had no power over you anymore . . . why didnt you get in touch?"

"I didnt think youd want to know me, after the way Id treated you. To be honest, I was happy just knowing you were nearby."

"I might have been happier too, knowing youd moved back," I say angrily. "You didnt give me the chance, though, did you?"

"Im sorry, Gaby. I hoped I might . . . I dont know, b.u.mp into you in the street one day. I know how pathetic it sounds, believe me. Look on the bright side: when I killed Francine, I was reborn as a man of action, albeit a cold-blooded murderer."

Not funny.

"You didnt come back to the Culver Valley for me," I say. "You could have felt the way you felt about me from anywhere. Francine was the irresistible pull, wasnt she? New, damaged Francine. How desperate were you to see it firsthand?"

"Honestly?" Tims voice cracks on the word. As if too much truth could break him. "Pretty desperate. Not for the reason you think. It wasnt about gloating or revenge, not at first. I wanted to see if I was still scared of her. G.o.d." He closes his eyes. "You have no idea how much I needed the answer to that question. It was like a scientific experiment. I was told before I saw her that her mind was still functioning. Her personality too, presumably. But she couldnt speak at all, could hardly move. So how could she have the power Francine used to have over me?" He shrugs. "It could have gone either way."

"What do you mean?"

"I might have been as cowed by her as Id always been. She was still her, still there, alive. Or . . ." Tim takes a deep breath. "I might have looked at her lying there and thought, f.u.c.k you. You have no hold over me now."

"And? Which did it turn out to be?"

"Neither." Tim smiles. "Lifes never as simple as you hope itll be. I knew straightaway that I wouldnt be able to answer my question unless I spent more time with her. As much time as I could. I needed to get used to the new Francine if I wanted to shake off the old feelings. I suspected that if I did, if I really immersed myself, the time would come when I wouldnt fear her at all. When Id be able to say, 'You know what, Francine? Im in love with a woman called Gaby Struthers. You probably dont remember the name-I mentioned her a couple of times, years ago. She used to be a client. Anyway, I want to ask her to marry me, so . . . any ideas about how we sort out a divorce? Obviously youre laid up, so Ill take care of all the admin." Tim covers his face with his hands and rubs. Trying to rub himself out. "Sorry," he says through his fingers.

"Did you still want to kill her?"

He stares at me, unblinking. "You missed the point," he says eventually. "Im asking you to marry me."

And if I say yes straightaway, Ill lose what little bargaining power I have.

"I love you, Gaby. My wife is dead. Thanks to me. Im going to be spending the next ten years in prison, at a minimum. If that doesnt kill your love for me, then please marry me."

My heart pole-vaults in my chest. I repeat my question. "Did you still want to kill Francine, when you saw her after shed had the stroke?"

"I did kill her," Tim says. "Thats all you need to know."

"I operate on a want-to-know basis."

He sighs. "Yes, I still wanted to kill her. It wasnt the same, though. I also wanted to know whether I was right to want to kill her. Whether the 'her Id be killing was the same woman Id been unhappily married to. The more time that pa.s.sed with her in that state, I just . . . I found it harder to be certain Id be killing the Francine I wanted to kill. I dont expect it to make sense to you."

"It makes perfect sense," I tell him. "So, what, you watched her for signs? Clues? What could she have done to prove she was the same old Francine? Or to prove she wasnt?"

Tims staring at the floor. He doesnt like where Im heading: too close to the truth.

"Thats why you didnt kill her," I say. "She could have been changed by what shed been through, or not. You had no way of knowing. All you could do was sit by her bedside and . . . what? Watch for the sign that you knew would never come? Try to interpret the look in her eyes, gauge the emotional atmosphere around her? Meanwhile, the Francine whod made you suffer was receding further and further into distant memory, where no one could touch her. Getting away with it. Id have hated her more at that point, I think. Though, like you, I wouldnt have been able to murder the body, not without knowing if the woman I hated was still in it."

"Please stop," Tim whispers.

I stand up, pull my hand away from his.

"Do you think Im perfect, Tim? Im not. Whatever it is that youre so scared to tell me, whatever youre trying to atone for and think is worse than killing Francine, maybe Ive done something as bad."

"I doubt it."

"And if I had? Would you stop loving me?"

"Id love you whatever you did."

I hold up my hands. Why cant he see it? I cant bring myself to tell him what he should know by heart.

"Do you know why I left you alone for so long?" I say. "It had nothing to do with you telling me it was over. Id have put up a fight, but . . . I felt unworthy. Of you. All the time we were together, or whatever you want to call it, you never took anything from me."

"What do you mean?" Tim asks.

"You never asked for anything. It was as if you existed solely for my benefit. You didnt drain me in the way Sean did: expecting things, requiring me to behave in a certain way, making me feel as if I was a resource, put on earth for his convenience-a malfunctioning resource that stopped doing its job properly years ago. You were the opposite: you helped me with my business, you talked to me about poetry. Every single effect you had on my life was a good one, without exception."

"How does that make you unworthy?" Tim asks.

"My feelings for you were too strong. They felt . . . unnatural. I thought, Maybe Im a selfish b.i.t.c.h who can only love someone who gives constantly and asks for nothing in return."

Tims shaking his head. "I dont know how you can think that. I might have asked for nothing, but nothing wasnt what I got. The opposite."

"Sean had money," I say quickly, wanting to get the confession out there before I can change my mind. "Inherited money, like Dans. Not as much. Fifty grand. He didnt want to invest any of it. I didnt ask him, obviously. . . ."

"Whys it obvious?" Tim sits forward in his chair. "He was your partner, and it was a brilliant investment opportunity. Put those two things together-"

"The company was nothing to do with Sean. If hed wanted any part of it, hed have offered. He knew I was looking for investors." Why does this still hurt, when I dont love Sean and havent for a long time? "I could see his point of view," I say. "What I a.s.sumed was his point of view, I mean. I never asked him, we never talked about it. He had fifty grand and that was it, the extent of his savings. If my company had nosedived . . ."

"I knew it wouldnt," says Tim. "Sean would have known too, if hed taken an interest."

"If hed thought I could turn his money into ten times as much, hed have invested," I say. "When he didnt offer, I knew he had no faith in me. I let it kill our relationship, and I never said a word, never gave him a chance to explain." Its a relief to be telling someone. "Doesnt that make me the lowest of the low? And if you add in the fact that I fell in love with you as well, round about the same time you were hatching brilliant plans to bring in the millions for me . . . And Dan and Kerry, whose money made Seans seem like small change, were suddenly my second and third favorite people in the world, after you. I liked them so much more because of something that had nothing to do with them, because theyd demonstrated so clearly that they were the opposite of Sean: willing to back me when he wasnt, even though they hardly knew me."

Tim smiles. "Are you saying you fell in love with me because I was a talented fund-raiser?"

I want to keep that smile forever. I fell in love with him, among other reasons, because he has always known how to make me laugh. "I dont think I did, but how do I know? Its a bit of a coincidence, isnt it? Sean doesnt offer me so much as a tenner and I fall out of love with him; you solve all my problems and I fall for you head over heels."

"This ones easily sorted out," Tim says. "Do you still love me? I havent been an accountant for years. Ive lost all my contacts. Youre unlikely to get any more money out of me."

"Yes," I say.

"Then you must want me for me."

"I want you out of prison," I tell him. "I dont care what youve done, Tim. I care that you dont trust me enough to tell me."

He looks up at me. "Other people are involved, Gaby. Its not only me."

"Arent I one of those other people? The one you want to marry?"

"Yes, of course. I just meant-"

"Then tell me the truth," I talk over his doubts. "And dont propose to me again until you have."

24.

14/3/2011.

Dont take one. Dont.

Sam stared at the neatly stacked leaflets in the display rack while he waited for the librarian to return. Leaflet, rather, since the rack was stuffed with multiple copies of only one: stiff and expensive-looking, glossy white with black print and a black-and-white photograph on the front. "Join the Proscenium Library today," it urged. Sam thought about taking a break between leaving the police and finding a new job. A year spent whiling away the weekdays, doing nothing but reading-it was an appealing prospect, but he doubted Kate would share his enthusiasm.

Sam hadnt read poetry since school. It wasnt the book collection that attracted him so much as the beauty and coolness of the building. The Proscenium was like a church that belonged to the religion of literature. A church with a top-notch restaurant. And totally silent. How was that possible, when Rawndesley city center was outside? Sam wondered how Gaby Struthers and Tim Breary had managed to start a relationship in a place where raising your voice above half a decibel was forbidden. Did whispering make it more romantic? Did people join the Proscenium in order to hide from the world? Block out reality?

Sam pushed these thoughts from his mind as he saw the librarian approaching. May Geraghty was a tall, thin woman of around sixty with straight, heavy-fringed gray hair. She was mouthing words as she crossed the room, but Sam couldnt make them out. She must have known he wouldnt be able to. Sam recognized the type: awkward, easily fl.u.s.tered, incapable of walking toward somebody face-to-face without starting a conversation in transit. Feeling her unease, Sam crossed the room to meet her halfway.

"This is a little awkward," she whispered. The very word that had been in Sams mind. "The sonnet youre looking for is by a poet called Lachlan Mackinnon. Its in his 2003 collection The Jupiter Collisions."

Sam wondered if she was having him on. Or if it was some kind of strange test. "Yes, I know," he said. Lowering his voice further in response to May Geraghtys pained expression, he whispered. "You told me that already." I thought you were going to find the book. Hed been impressed when shed taken one look at his photocopied sheet of paper and immediately recognized the poem.

"Yes." May nodded, as if the decision to give him the same information twice had been a deliberate and sensible one. "The thing is, Im afraid I cant bring the book to you at the moment." She nodded again. A fan of repet.i.tion, evidently.

"Right," said Sam. "Thats okay." It was the longest of long shots, in any case. "Perhaps I could-"

"I cant bring it out to the desk, because its rather popular today. Our newest proprietor is sitting in the drawing room reading it. If only all our books were as much in demand!" she whispered emphatically.

Newest member. Sam felt a p.r.i.c.kle along the back of his neck.

"However," May Geraghty beamed at him, "Ive just spoken to the gentleman, and hes a.s.sured me that hed be delighted if youd join him briefly. h.e.l.l be more than happy to let you have a quick look. Shall I show you through? And while youre talking to him, Ill get you the film from the CCTV for Friday night."

"Yes, please," said Sam.

He followed May Geraghty across the room and along a roped-off corridor, trying not to think about the man he would find at the end of it.

Only one person it can be . . .

Behind the mustard-colored rope on one side there was a large antique wooden writing desk. Newspapers and magazines covered its surface, laid out in four neat columns, collapsed-domino style. As he and May moved farther away from the Prosceniums restaurant, the foody smell gave way to the more library-appropriate odors of chalk, dust, old paper. It was a pleasant combination, Sam thought. Comforting.