"Sergeant Kombothekra." Dan Jose appeared in the doorway ahead. There was a book in his hand. "Im not sure if this can accurately be called a coincidence, but it feels like one."

"Sssh!" May Geraghty hissed, startling the elderly man and woman who were sitting at a table by one of the drawing rooms large sash windows.

In a corner to the left of the unlit fire, a red-and-gray canvas rucksack that Sam had seen at the Dower House leaned against a high-backed green leather armchair-part of a cl.u.s.ter of three arranged around a small circular occasional table.

"Have a seat," Dan said. "I can order us some coffee if youd like? Or tea?"

"No, thanks," said Sam, who had never understood why he often refused drinks he would have liked to accept. He noticed a trainer protruding from the rucksack, a lace spilling over the side. "I walked here," Dan said, looking down at the polished brown leather shoes he was wearing. "Took me exactly an hour and a half. Another good reason for becoming a member. Or a 'proprietor, as May prefers to call us. Good for the body, good for the mind."

"Is that why you joined?" Sam asked.

"No. Not really. Pretty obvious why I joined, isnt it?"

"Because Tims a member?"

"Well, not so much that hes a member as . . ." Dan looked down at his lap. "I dont know. I know how much this place means to him. For as long as he cant make use of it . . . And, if its all right . . . ?"

"What?" Sam asked.

"I didnt tell Kerry I was coming here. I wasnt planning to tell her Id joined. Not that its a secret or anything. Id just rather she didnt know."

Sam wondered about Dan Joses definition of the word "secret." It was obviously different from his own.

"Shed disapprove?" Sam asked.

"No. Shed say it was the best idea, and wonder why she hadnt had it herself." Dan chewed the inside of his lip. "Shed want us to come here together. Which wouldnt be so bad. It wouldnt be bad at all." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

"But?" Sam prompted.

"I dont know. I wasnt planning to join. Like you, I came in to ask about this." Dan held up the poetry book. "Spur-of-the-moment, I thought, why not? When Tims back at home, we can come here together, for lunch."

"Without Kerry?"

"No, all of us. Of course."

"But until then, youd rather come here alone?" Sam persisted.

"I needed some s.p.a.ce," Dans voice dropped from quiet to a whisper, barely audible. His face colored. Did he imagine that the elderly couple by the window were listening avidly? They were doing a convincing impression of two people who had no interest in other human beings, least of all each other.

"I suppose I was trying to test out what it might feel like to be Tim," Dan said. "To sit here reading. Thinking the kind of crazy thoughts only Tim would think. Wondering if any of them make sense, when you really examine them."

Sam wanted to know more, but his instincts told him hed do better if he changed the subject. "Can I see the book?" he asked.

Dan handed it to him. "Its the last poem youre after. 'Sonnet, its called."

"How do you know what Im looking for?"

"How do I know Tim gave you a copy of that poem and asked you to pa.s.s it on to Gaby Struthers?" Dan answered with a question.

"That too," Sam said. He flicked through The Jupiter Collisions. The sonnet was where Dan had said it would be: at the end. There was no message for Gaby Struthers tucked between the pages, though of course Dan would have got to it first and might have removed it.

Highly unlikely. Sam had always thought so. And having the idea in front of Simon, as Charlie had suggested, had achieved nothing as far as Sam could tell. Simon had grunted noncommittally and walked away.

"I know because I let Tim down," Dan said. "Thats why he had to ask you to give Gaby the poem-because I hadnt done it. He asked me the first time I visited him in prison. Hed written the poem out by hand. For Gaby. I promised Id give it to her, but when I told Kerry about it she said no, I mustnt, it would be the worst thing I could possibly do."

"Why?"

Dan sighed. "Its complicated. The last time Tim sort of sent Gaby a love poem, everything spiraled out of control. Tim ended up trying to take his own life. I think Kerry didnt want to risk that happening again. Im sure she was right, even if I couldnt follow the logic myself."

Sam couldnt either. "So you came here . . . what, to see if you could find the poem?"

Dan nodded. "I thought there was a reasonable chance, since I knew the poets name."

"I didnt," Sam told him. "Luckily, May Geraghty seems to have committed to memory every poem thats ever been written."

"I thought I might copy it out, since theres no photocopier here," Dan said. "Make sure Gaby gets it this time. Or at least try to work out my own opinion, instead of obeying Tim or obeying Kerry. Use my judgment for once."

"Only about the poem?" Sam asked.

The answering silence lasted nearly ten seconds. Then Dan said, "No. About everything."

Sam waited. The words he heard next sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to his heart.

"Weve been lying to you. All of us." Dan flinched as if at bad news. "Im not telling you anything you dont know, am I?"

"No." Not yet.

"We all knew what Jason had done to Gaby on Friday night. Sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d. We always wondered about him and Lauren, what went on between them, but . . . Look, you have to believe that Kerry and I would never have given Jason an alibi if wed thought there was even a fractional chance hed get away with hurting Gaby. Since he was dead-"

"How did you know that?" Sam interrupted.

"We knew." The shut-down expression on Dans face told Sam not to push it. "I dont want to lie to you anymore. That means Im not going to be able to answer every question you ask me."

Then youre still lying. Hows it any different?

"Who killed Francine?" Sam asked, struggling to contain his disappointment.

Silence.

"Was it Tim?"

"I didnt witness Francines murder," Dan said, after giving it some thought. "So all I know is what Ive been told. One of the things Ive been told is that we all have to lie, and keep lying. Ive been told that by more than one person. At first I thought it must be true. Now Im not so sure. I doubt very much that Gaby Struthers would agree, and shes certainly the cleverest of everyone involved, if were talking intellect. Or is that too elitist a way to look at it?"

Sams phone had started to vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. Sellers. "Dan, Im grateful for any honesty I can get, but if the only truth youre willing to tell me is that youve been lying, that doesnt really help me. Excuse me, I have to take this call." Sam hurried out into the corridor with the mustard-colored rope, wondering how long it would take Dan Jose to progress beyond the stage of suspecting that Gaby Struthers would want the truth told to the crucial next stage (without which all the others were sodding pointless, frankly) of actually telling it.

"Sorry," Sam said to Sellers, instead of "h.e.l.lo."

"I forgive you, Sarge. You still at the library?"

"I am. I cant really talk."

May Geraghty had appeared at the far end of the corridor and was peering at Sam disapprovingly. Oh, get a life, you old bat, he thought, knowing that if he said it out loud hed be plagued by remorse for months.

"You can listen, though, right?" said Sellers.

"Go on."

"Ive been to Wayne Cuffleys work. They can account for his whereabouts for the whole of the sixteenth of February, so hes ruled out for Francine Breary. I thought it wouldnt do any harm to check on his wifes alibi too, since she helped him dump Jason Cooksons body."

Good thinking. Never hurts to be thorough. Sam would have said so if he hadnt been subject to May Geraghtys Trappist restrictions.

"Lisa Cuffleys a nail technician, works at a place called Intuitions in Combingham. Its a right dive. Ive just been there."

And?

"Lisa was at work on the sixteenth of February too-all day. Sarge, I dont know what made me think of it, but I asked about Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights just gone, not really expecting anything, and guess what? On Sat.u.r.day night, Lisa Cuffley had a private booking shed taken via the salon-a hen party in Spilling, all the girls wanting their nails done and a lesson on how to do it themselves. Obviously she could have been mistaken, but Lisas boss reckons Lisa was at this party on Sat.u.r.day from nine till after midnight."

And therefore not available to give Jason Cooksons dead body a lift to the police station.

"Did you talk to Lisa about it?" Sam asked Sellers. "Was she there?"

"Not yet. Yeah, shes there now, but I wanted to tell you first, see what you thought."

"Get back on to Wayne Cuffleys work, ask them about Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights too," Sam told him. He turned his back on May Geraghtys glare of profound and enduring disappointment, pleased to be able to demonstrate that he could withstand a strangers disapproval in a public setting for up to ten seconds.

"Cooksons bloods all over Cuffleys house and car," said Sellers.

"So he was probably killed in one, and transported to the nick in the other, but lets not take anything on trust," Sam said. Ever again, he added silently. "If Cuffleys lying about Lisa being with him when he dropped the body, whats to say that anything hes told us has been the truth?"

25.

MONDAY, 14 MARCH 2011.

Knocking. Loud. Tim would never knock like this. Which means this cant be him, so I might as well stay where I am: lying on the bed in my hotel room with the curtains shut and the TV screen flickering mutely from its wood veneer cabinet. At least I cant hear the drivel Im watching.

If I loved Tim less, Id be working now. Doing something important. I cant imagine ever again being able to concentrate on anything apart from him. It scares me.

More knocking.

I haul myself off the bed, gearing up to yell at another member of hotel staff. Most of them seem to think my "Do Not Disturb" request applies only for a limited period, that its impossible for anyone to want to be left alone for as long as that signs been hanging from my door. I havent moved from the bed for nearly eight hours.

The maid would only be disappointed if I let her in. There would be nothing for her to do. I havent had a bath or a shower, no room service, no cups of tea or coffee. Ive barely disturbed the bedclothes; the outer cover is still in place, uncreased. Ive hardly slept, apart from when Ive lost consciousness, fully dressed, for the odd half hour here and there. Each time, Ive woken with my heart pounding and Jason Cooksons sickening voice in my head.

Tims fault.

No. Thats not fair. I mustnt let myself think that.

The knocking has developed a threatening tone. Best Western housekeeping wouldnt be so confrontational. I open the door half an inch and see a thin tear-streaked face.

Lauren.

Fear surges up inside me, all the way to my throat.

He cant be with her. Hes dead.

She starts in on me from the corridor. "What the f.u.c.k are you playing at? Is this some kind of joke? You tell me to come here and then you wont let me in?"

"Ill let you in." Just not yet. Im not ready. I stand in front of the door so that shed have to knock me over to force it open any farther. Im heavier than she is, even after three days of near-starvation. Shed never manage it.

Im having difficulty believing shes here. I did as Simon Waterhouse asked and delivered my letter to her first thing this morning, but I never thought shed respond. I added my new contact details thinking I was safe: hotel name, address, room number.

She ran away from me. And now shes back.

Ready or not, I need to talk to her. I have to let her in.

I open the door fully and stand to one side. "Come in. Sorry. Its . . . I didnt think itd be you."

"Well, it is." The door swings closed behind her, taking with it the light from the corridor. "f.u.c.kin h.e.l.l, Gaby, are you going to open the curtains or what? I cant see a f.u.c.king thing."

Should I give her a hug? The idea embarra.s.ses me. Shed probably punch me in the face.

"Ill open them," I say. Its true: I would, if I could move. Im trying to understand why having Lauren here is making me feel so churned up. Nearly as bad as when I first saw Tim in prison. It doesnt make sense: shes nothing to me. She should mean nothing.

I watch as she walks over to the window and yanks open the curtains as if shes trying to rip them off the rail. "Jasons dead," she says matter-of-factly.

"I know."

She picks up the remote control from the bed, turns off the TV. "Who told you? The police? They tell you who did it?"

Do they know? Obviously they do.

"My dads turned himself in."

I look at her "FATHER" tattoo, then quickly look away. I want to ask all kinds of questions. Should probably wait. Express sympathy first. "Lauren, I . . . I dont know what to say. Thats terrible. Are you . . ." No. Of course she isnt okay.

"Im fine." She wipes her eyes.

"Im not close to my family, and Im not married, but if my father killed my husband . . ." Once upon a time, I would have been confident that that sort of thing would happen in someone like Laurens world, but never in mine.

"I begged him not to do it."