"Hold on a minute, Charlie. Thats not-" Sam broke off and shook his head. Laughed. "Proust told Simon, didnt he?"

"No. Sellers? No. You wont guess who told us if you try for a million years. And now Im going back to bed. Ive got the day off, I didnt get to sleep till five, so . . . bye." Charlie tried to close the door.

Sam grabbed it and held it open.

"Is that your I-expected-better-of-you disappointed-parent face?" Charlie asked him. "If so, its only a matter of time before your boys develop a crack habit, let me tell you." She tried again to close the door; Sam stopped her a second time. He looked confused: she couldnt possibly really want to shut him out, could she?

Hes a good person. Youve always thought so.

Is that how it works? Charlie wondered: first build up a reputation for goodness, then behave however you like, confident that no one will recognize any behavior that belies your label and a.s.signed category? She wasnt sure she had the energy to redefine Sam, not after shed gone to the trouble of defining him once already. Who had time to reevaluate these things? Forming judgments about people wasnt supposed to be like dusting or stocking the fridge: something you had to do over and over again.

Sam turned and looked at his car, parked on the road, then back at Charlie. "Come with me," he said. "Youd be a huge help. I could do with talking things over with someone whos coming at it afresh."

Go with him where? Hed hardly invite her into CID, her former workplace. So where? Curiosity was an unfortunate character trait for a police sergeant who was no longer a detective and had the day off.

"Thanks for remembering to mention whats in it for me," Charlie said. Though she could see one advantage of going with Sam: shed be able to make sure he wasnt headed for the same destination as Simon: HMP Combingham, to talk to Tim Breary. Unlikely. Prisons didnt admit visitors without notice, unless those visitors were called Simon Waterhouse. Charlie knew, and Sam would know, that he wouldnt be able to get her in. Which meant that today wasnt her day for meeting Tim Breary, the Dont Know Why Killer.

Charlie heard herself say, "I regret walking out of my job in CID and leaving it wide-open for you to walk into."

Sam smiled. "Youve never told me that before. But Ive always known."

"I could live with it when I thought you were saintly and more deserving than me, and a good balance for Simon, but now?" She shook her head, knowing shed regret giving voice to the secret shed kept carefully locked inside for years. Already, she could feel her resentment swelling, taking shape in the world outside herself. It was like the little pickle pots at Samirs, her and Simons favorite Indian restaurant in Rawndesley: once youd removed the raita pot from the bigger tray, there was no squeezing it back in with the onions, the mango chutney and the lime pickle, even though the four had arrived perfectly slotted in together.

"Nothings changed," said Sam. "Get dressed. Ill explain on the way."

"On the way to where? I havent agreed to come with you," Charlie pointed out. "Im more f.u.c.ked off with you than Ive ever been, and youre inviting me for a day out?"

"The Dower House, home of Kerry and Dan Jose. Wear something . . ." Sam changed his mind about whatever hed been planning to say. "Doesnt matter. Wear anything. Not too smart, though. Nothing intimidating or policey."

Charlie knocked on his forehead as if it were a door. "Im angry with you, Sam. I dont want to go for a drive, and I dont want to spend my day off doing your work. f.u.c.k, youre as bad as Simon." Didnt Sam used to listen to what people said to him? A sharp chill scooped a hollow in Charlies stomach. Was that it? Had working with Simon changed Sam? She felt treacherous considering the possibility. Simon broke rules, but only . . .

Only when the rules were wrong?

"If youre still angry fifteen minutes after we set off, Ill stop the car, ring a cab to bring you back, and pay for it myself," said Sam. "Deal?" It was a deal Simon wouldnt have offered and wouldnt have honored, and was therefore irresistible.

Charlie groaned as she headed upstairs. "Pushover," she muttered. "Doormat."

"Reasonable and flexible," Sam amended.

"Hah! We both know thats not true. Clothes: lefty-liberal caring?"

"Do you have anything like that?" Sam sounded doubtful.

"No. Only chain mail with torture instrument accessories," Charlie called down from upstairs. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and put on her favorite bright red lipstick too quickly, so that it looked as if her mouth had brushed against an open wound. She swore under her breath-a calming mantra-as she removed the red smudges with water and a tissue. She wondered if Sam was hoping somebody would confide in her today, someone who wouldnt in him, or hadnt so far.

The Dower House. Kerry and Dan Jose. Charlie had attended a conference at a hotel called the Dower House once, during her former life as an academic. In Yorkshire-she couldnt remember where exactly, but she thought it might have begun with a "K." Shed asked a member of staff about the hotels name, and ended up on the receiving end of a social history lecture that was long, tedious and mildly offensive in that it took for granted that everybody came from a wealthy country-estate-owning family, though both the woman delivering the lecture and Charlie, the only two partic.i.p.ants in the conversation, quite clearly did not. Still, it was thanks to that womans memorable pretentiousness that Charlie now knew that a dower house was where an estate owners wife moved when she was widowed, once the estate owner had died and the larger manor house had to be pa.s.sed on to the son and heir.

Charlie didnt think it likely that any of that applied to Kerry Jose, especially not if she was married to the still-alive Dan Jose. She pulled gray wool trousers and a sage-green V-necked lambs-wool sweater out of a drawer-no abrasive fabrics, softness to signify empathy-and felt excited about doing what she still thought of as proper police work, though in the small compartment of her mind that she maintained as strictly rational, in which her permanently ailing sensible streak occasionally barricaded itself in order to survive, she knew there was more to policing than catching murderers. There were other kinds of killers to apprehend that CID wouldnt look twice at. That was why Charlie had made a beeline for the regional suicide prevention forum when the chance arose. Suicide was the murder of the self; was there anything worse, anything more steeped in negativity and destructiveness, that a person could do?

Charlie didnt think so. She was as opposed to self-murder as she was to all the murders that were officially labeled as such. Yes, in any and all circ.u.mstances; yes, even in cases of pain and terminal illness-whats wrong with s.h.i.tloads of morphine? Enough to remove pain and even consciousness if necessary, but not enough to kill. Charlie defended herself in her head because shed never had the opportunity in real life. She hadnt told anyone her views apart from Simon, knowing they were unfashionable and would be unpopular.

Ludicrously, most of the other members of the suicide prevention forum claimed to be supporters of the very thing they sought to prevent. In theory, they vigorously defended anyones right to choose to die and make that choice a reality, while simultaneously working hard to bring down the suicide rate. Charlie found this laughable. Simon had stuck up for the hypocrites briefly, until Charlie had converted him to her way of thinking, but it hadnt felt like a true victory. Simon was a Catholic. Hed probably been persuaded by the ghost of childhood brainwashing as much as by Charlie. One of the few times shed properly made him laugh, ever, was when shed said, "I know this sounds silly, but suicide doesnt do anybody any good."

"Lets hear your excuses, then," she said to Sam as they set off in his car. It was much brighter now. Even with the visors down, the glare of the sun made the road hard to see. Sam kept having to duck and lean to the side.

"I cant think who told you, but whoever it was . . . Proust didnt bargain for that," he said. "Do you know the Tim Breary story so far?"

"The Dont Know Why Killer."

"Perfect name for him," said Sam. "Did Simon think of it?"

"No, I did. I was standing near Simon when it happened, though. Maybe his brains like wireless Internet: if youre near enough, you pick up the signal."

Sam laughed. He was at peace with the idea that Simon was the source of all brilliance, and a.s.sumed Charlie was too. "On Tuesday, Proust spent the morning digging about in the Tim Breary case, on his own, without telling any of us why. Late afternoon, he summoned Sellers and ordered him to alter the transcript of our first-ever interview with Breary-to take part of it out."

"You keep the recorded version too, though, right?"

"We do. Exactly."

"Exactly, what?"

"Proust knew the recording would be put into evidence, to be whipped out later by anyone wanting to prove that Sellers transcript wasnt quite right. Sellers was worried, understandably, about being asked to produce an incorrect transcript, about how easy itd be to prove that hed altered it. So he came to me, and I felt the same way: it was crazy." Sam shook his head. "And out of character for Proust to ask. Apart from the way he treats us, he doesnt bend the rules, and this was more than a bend he was asking for. I couldnt believe hed risk his job and reputation-"

"He risks nothing," Charlie cut in. "Sellers is the one doing the deed, right? If it ever comes out, the Snowman denies all knowledge. You corroborate Sellers version, Proust calls you both liars . . ."

"And its two against one," Sam hijacked the point Charlie was trying to make. "Hes universally hated at work. Sellers isnt, neither am I. Why would he take that risk, give Barrow and the chief constable an excuse to get rid of him early?"

"Did you ask him that?"

"I did. He said there was no risk: Simon wouldnt find out, and even if he did, he wouldnt do anything about it."

"Probably true." Charlie sighed. "Is that it? Did he say anything else?"

"You dont want to know." Sams face had reddened. He twisted his head to the right and said something under his breath about driving blind. The car swerved.

Charlie shielded her eyes with her hand and waited for Sam to tell her the rest. She was pleased the sun was torturing him on her behalf.

"He said Simon was a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t."

"Oh, not that speech again!"

"Youve heard it?"

"In full. Simons upbringing was so warped that he learned to misinterpret pain as pleasure because it was all he had. Thats why he wouldnt be any happier working for someone who treated him well and why the Snowmans the best possible boss for him, one who meets all his needs. Actually, I think theres a lot of truth in it," Charlie said.

"It doesnt explain why the rest of us tolerate Prousts unacceptable behavior: me, Gibbs, Sellers."

Theyd left Spilling behind and were heading out of town on the Silsford Road. Which meant that soon theyd see clouds, and visibility would no longer be an issue. Everyone in Spilling knew that the weather was worse in Silsford, always.

"The default setting of human beings is to put up with infinite s.h.i.t," said Charlie. "Look at me, trundling along in the car of a turncoat. You conveniently missed off the end of the transcript story: you did it. Or you told Sellers to do it. And you agreed to keep it from Simon and Gibbs. Did Proust threaten you with the sack?"

"Yes, he did, but no, we didnt. I refused on behalf of us both, me and Sellers. Proust said nothing, just waved me out of his office. I a.s.sumed he knew hed lost. I thought hed sulk for a while and then forget about it-he never initiates the disciplinary proceedings hes forever promising. But then yesterday I checked the transcript and found that hed done it himself. The part of the interview hed wanted gone was gone, and so was the recording. There was nothing to prove anything had been removed, apart from mine and Sellers memories of what Tim Breary had said that had disappeared from the record. The evidence log had been altered-no mention of the recording where previously there had been. I couldnt believe it. I didnt say anything to Sellers, to Proust, to anyone. I needed time to think it through."

"You didnt tell Simon." Charlie thought the point worth stressing. She lowered her window, pressing the b.u.t.ton with her elbow as she lit a cigarette. "You were at the Brown Cow with him after work last night for at least an hour, and you said nothing."

"I was still thinking it over," said Sam. "Should I put in an official complaint, take it to Superintendent Barrow? Decisions that big cant be made quickly."

"Yes. I can see how youd need at least a week to decide whether to turn a blind eye to blatant corruption. Its one of those tricky ambiguous areas."

"Charlie, I would never have gone along with it. It was a question of how not to, thats all. And it wasnt a week, it was less than twenty-four hours. Im glad I didnt rush into anything."

"When you next see Simon, ask him if he shares your gladness."

Less than twenty-four hours. Simon needed to be made aware of that detail. Would it make a difference? To anyone reasonable, yes, but to someone as obsessive as Simon, who never questioned his right to invade the minds of others and know everything straightaway?

"When I turned up this morning, it was to make us all happy," Sam said. "Me because I hate keeping anything about a case from Simon-"

"Sounds as if youve tried it more than once," Charlie interrupted.

"I havent," said Sam solemnly. "I hated it, Charlie. I wanted to spill the whole story last night in the Brown Cow, but I cant do anything without thinking first, and I know Simon can when hes in a rage. Thats why I waited. And then last night, tossing and turning in bed and keeping Kate awake, I realized that by keeping quiet, I was doing the opposite of what Proust wanted."

Charlie opened her mouth to argue, but found she couldnt. It made sense. There was no way Proust would take that big a gamble if the risk were genuine. "He wanted you to tell Simon in a way thatd grab his full attention," she said. "Wrapped in a fake attempt to keep it from him. He was banking on Simon not reporting him, and even if he did, Proust could produce the missing recording of the Tim Breary interview and Sellers original transcript, and claim the whole thing had been tactical. Temporary." None of which hed told his wife or daughter, a.s.suming Regan Murray was a reliable witness. Shed been convinced his true aim was to keep Simon in the dark, so that he wouldnt question Tim Brearys guilt.

"Precisely." Sam sounded relieved to have got his point across. They turned onto a single-track road, lined with tall trees on both sides. So they were going either to Lower Heckencott or Upper Heckencott, Charlie deduced. Very nice. Each hamlet had no more than five houses in it, and each one looked from the outside as if it was sure to have a grand piano in its forty-foot entrance hall, whether it was an eighteenth-century mansion or an ostentatious new build with one of those fat-pillared outdoor porches, or "porte cocheres," as Liv pretentiously called them.

"So the deletion was . . . what?" she asked Sam. "Something that cast doubt on Tim Breary having done it?"

"How did you work that out?" This time Sam didnt suggest that her good idea must have originated with Simon.

"Proust doesnt think Tim Breary murdered his wife, but Brearys confessed." Charlie flicked ash out of her open window. "The Snowman needs Simon to challenge that confession, because he wont risk being visibly wrong himself. He knows Simons likely to make more of something if he thinks hes uncovered it against someones will, so he stages a cover-up, knowing youll run bleating to Simon about misconduct. No offense."

Sam was nodding. "I go to Simon, bleat, Simon asks me whats missing, what was Proust so determined to strike from the record? I tell him, he latches on to it in a way that he might not have done if hed just read it without knowing anyone had tried to hide it from him. He decides Breary cant have killed his wife-"

"Except that it wasnt you who told Simon," Charlie reminded him. "It was Prousts daughter."

The car swerved to one side, then righted itself. "Prousts daughter?"

Charlie decided she didnt owe Sam the full story. "What did Tim Breary say that might or might not be suspicious?" she asked. Simon knew, but wouldnt tell her. Charlie had waited up for him until two-thirty last night. He hadnt been with Regan Murray all that time; hed been walking the streets, thinking about what shed told him. Hed mumbled something to Charlie about not being ready to discuss it before getting into bed and falling asleep instantly, leaving her lying awake feeling as if shed lost something important but couldnt work out what.

Sam opened his window: a silent rejection of the guilt-free nicotine hit Charlie was offering him. "When Breary told us hed killed his wife, obviously we asked him why. He said he didnt know. It wasnt planned-he was sitting beside her bed talking to her and, without knowing why, he picked up a pillow, pressed it down over her face and smothered her to death."

"Did she fight back?" Charlie asked.

"She couldnt. Two years ago she had a stroke that left her hardly able to move and unable to speak."

"How old?"

"Francine was forty when she died, thirty-eight when she had the stroke."

"Thats incredibly young."

"It is," said Sam. "She was a clean liver too: exercised regularly, not overweight, didnt drink much, non-smoker, dedicated healthy eater."

"Theres your motive, then," Charlie said. "Dull as f.u.c.k to live with. Even more so post-stroke, presumably."

"Youre all heart," Sam teased her. As a diplomatic way of concealing his shock, Charlie guessed. Sam never said any of the things that no one should ever say; he certainly didnt strive to extend the canon in the way that Charlie did.

"Seriously," she said. "How about that for motive: he didnt want to be saddled with a vegetable for a wife?"

"Francine wasnt . . ." Sam was stuck. Charlie made a silent vow: if the words "a vegetable" were the next thing out of his mouth, she would give up smoking forever; this would be her last cigarette. "Mentally, she was in possession of her faculties," Sam said eventually.

"So she couldnt speak or move, but her mind was intact?" Charlie shuddered. "Horrendous. Also, another possible motive: he was putting her out of her misery." That must have been what Simon meant last night: if Tim Breary had killed his wife to spare her further suffering, if perhaps they had agreed, as some married couples did, that each would mercy-kill the other if necessary, then Francine Brearys death might not be murder. Her husband could plead guilty to aiding and abetting a suicide instead, and stay out of prison. And be given a bottle of wine by the Crown Prosecution Service and a box of chocolates too, probably; everyone was so perky about a.s.sisted suicide these days.

"Both motives suggested and rejected," Sam said. "Tim Breary denies the euthanasia angle vociferously, and almost as firmly-though not quite-denies wanting Francine out of the way because he was sick of being lumbered with her."

"So he knew why not," Charlie said thoughtfully. "Two reasons why not. But he claims not to know why."

"Right," said Sam. "No idea, he said in that first interview, and its what hes been saying since. And heres the part Proust thought interesting enough to magic out of the file: when Sellers and I annoyed Breary by refusing to move on from motive as quickly as he wanted us to, when we asked him to have a good hard think and see if he could come up with anything, he said something odd."

Here it comes, Charlie thought. Occams beard: the weirdest solution is always the correct one.

"He said, 'Its normal for a person to commit a murder without knowing why. Happens all the time. Its only in films and books that every killer has a cogent motive. He delivered that part with confidence, as if he knew what he was talking about, but then . . . it was as if he suddenly doubted it. He switched from telling us to asking us, said, 'Isnt it common for someone to kill another person and then tell you they dont know why they did it? Something came over them, they acted on impulse-that sort of thing? Sellers asked him if he knew anyone who worked for the police. He said no. 'So where have you got that from? Sellers asked. Breary snapped at him. 'I dont know-Radio 4, probably, he said. 'I have no original thoughts in my head. Please understand that, and save us all a lot of time and trouble. This guy, I swear, Ive never met anyone like him before. He says the weirdest things."

"He sounds like an intelligent, articulate murderer who doesnt want his motive known," Charlie said. "Who knows so little about the s.h.i.t we see every day that he imagines he can successfully pa.s.s himself off as the kind of incoherent skunked-up s.c.r.o.t.e who knifes someone and says, 'It just happened. The knife was in my hand and I stuck him, dunno why."

"He knows why," said Sam. "Thats a.s.suming he did it. I think he did, personally, but Im a minority of one: Simon, Sellers and Gibbs all disagree, and if our theorys right, Proust does too."

"What makes you think hes guilty?" Charlie asked.

"Tim Breary identified the pillow he used to smother his wife. She had four on her bed. They were all scattered on the floor when Lauren Cookson walked into the room and found Breary standing over Francines body. Lauren was the care a.s.sistant who looked after Francine."

"How anyone does that job is beyond me," said Charlie.

"Breary told us he used the pillow with a paisley-patterned cover. Our lab tests proved him right: it was covered in saliva, mucus, edema fluid-all Francines. The others were clean."

"So youre right," Charlie said. "He killed her, and doesnt want to say why."

"I think so. Most of the time. If it was only Breary saying he used the paisley pillow as a murder weapon and everyone else was saying they had no idea what happened, maybe doubting his word, saying they couldnt believe hed do it, then maybe-"

"What do you mean? Whos the 'everyone else?" Were there witnesses to the murder? How could Tim Brearys guilt be in doubt if there were?

"Kerry Jose. Dan Jose. Lauren Cookson. Jason Cookson." Sam reeled off the names expressionlessly. "All the inhabitants of the Dower House were home at the time of the murder. Apparently only Tim was in his wifes bedroom when the murder actually occurred-thats what they all say, Tim included-but they all seem to know what happened in that room as if theyd witnessed it firsthand. Theyre a small, unanimous community of five."

Charlie heard frustration in Sams voice and tried not to smile. He hated it when, despite his best efforts, he didnt feel able to believe witnesses.

"Of the four who arent Tim Breary, none of thems saying, 'Ask Tim what happened, he was the only one in the room when Francine died. They tell it as if they saw it, and their stories are identical. They all talk about the paisley pillow, they quote Tim without saying theyre quoting him. Its as if they were all there in the room with him. Except they say they werent, they say he told them what happened afterward, but . . . I dont know. It feels wrong."

"Are you thinking Murder on the Orient Express?" Charlie asked. "Agatha Christie. Have you read it?"