"I havent, but Ive seen it on telly. They all did it, together-all the suspects."

"And its fiction," Charlie said pointedly. "And the reason for all doing it together was so that everyone could be alibied by a supposedly unrelated third party, so that it looks as if none of them can have done it. Brilliant idea, but theres only a point if no one wants to go down for murder. Your Tim Breary seems keen to do just that-in which case, why would they all need to . . ." Charlie stopped and laughed at herself. "Of course they didnt all do it together. It doesnt take five people to hold a pillow over a semi-paralyzed stroke victims face." In the Agatha Christie novel, the partic.i.p.ation of all the conspirators wasnt necessary to ensure the death of the target, but was symbolically significant: everyone wanted to get revenge in person and at close range by inflicting his or her own knife wound. Pillow wound? Stop it, Zailer.

Sam pulled the car over by the gra.s.sy bank at the side of the road. Charlie tossed her cigarette b.u.t.t out of the open window and listened to the kind of silence you only ever hear near the homes of the very rich. Ahead was a pair of gray stone gateposts topped by large stone b.a.l.l.s. "Welcome to Lower Heckencott Hall," said Sam. "The Dower House doesnt have separate access, so we have to go through the grounds of the big house." He chuckled. "Thats what Kerry Jose calls the Hall. You should see the size of her place."

Charlie couldnt take her eyes off the gateposts. On each one was a carved relief of what looked like a cake stand piled high with fruit. Odd choice, so far from a kitchen. Charlie pictured, instead of the fruit platters, an image on each post of a pillow, with a woman suffocating beneath it, a hand pressing the pillow down. Or perhaps several hands, each one pressing on the one beneath . . .

"What if Tim Breary did it, but they all wanted it done?" said Sam. "Ive no proof, but maybe thats where the group thing comes in-the conspiracy, if you want to call it that."

"You obviously do." Funny, hed thought of the word too. Charlie reminded herself that she hadnt yet met any of these people. She was in no position to be theorizing with Sam.

He turned to face her. "Personally, I think Tim Breary killed his wife, but that doesnt mean he isnt lying. Whatever the story is, they all know it. They all know the word-perfect lie theyve agreed to present for public consumption, and they all know the truth. And none of thems telling."

7.

FRIDAY, 11 MARCH 2011.

"So what did you do?" Detective Constable Chris Gibbs asks me. "When you realized Lauren was talking about Tim Breary."

I thought Id finished the story I came here to tell. Thats why I stopped talking.

Staying focused is hard. My eyes ache to close and wont stop watering. The left one twitches every few seconds; Ive tried rubbing the skin around it, but the spasm is stubborn and wont be smoothed away. My hair is unbrushed and tangled, my trousers are streaked with mud and there are coffee stains on my top thanks to a bout of mid-flight turbulence. I must look repulsive. Poor DC Gibbs; I wouldnt want to be stuck in a too-small, too-warm interview room with me.

"Does it matter what I did?" I say. "This is about Tim Breary, not me. He didnt kill his wife, so drop the charges and release him. You dont prosecute when theres no chance of a conviction, do you?"

"Not as simple as that, and not up to us," says Gibbs. "Its the CPS call. Crown Prosecution Service."

"You, them, whoever," I say impatiently. "Whats a jury going to think when I stand up in court and quote Lauren Cookson on the subject of letting an innocent man go to prison for murder?"

"Your word against hers-thats what Id think. Id also wonder about your feelings for Tim Breary. I do wonder about them." He stares at me. Am I supposed to feel guilty for having feelings? It would be so convenient to have none. Id be able to sit here and concentrate on protecting my interests, and Tims, with no red whirlwind raging inside me; police detectives would hear my rational arguments and not sense the havoc underneath.

"Whatever your relationship with Tim Breary is or was, the prosecutionll sniff it out," Gibbs says. "When and how did the two of you meet?"

Im not ready for this. "Ill save the prosecution the effort by not hiding anything," I say, hardly hearing myself. Reasonable speech is no compet.i.tion for the roaring whirlwind. "Tim and I were good friends at one time. Its no secret. Ill tell them that, and then Ill tell them what Lauren said about him being innocent of murder, and the jury will acquit him. Except there wont be a jury. It wont come to that. The CPS will drop the charge as soon as theyve read my statement."

Gibbs doesnt disagree as I expect him to. "It wouldnt happen that quickly," he says distractedly, as if something more interesting has drawn his attention away from me. "A lots going to depend on whether Lauren confirms or denies your account of last night."

So Tims freedom hinges on the testimony of an unstable tattooed moron. Thats comforting to know. "Sh.e.l.l deny it because shes scared s.h.i.tless," I say.

"Youd be surprised how many people cave in at the first challenge," says Gibbs.

I want to tell him to stop wasting time speculating and get out there and find Lauren.

"Wheres Tim?" I ask. "Is he here, in a cell somewhere?" If the answer is yes, Im going to find it hard to stay in my seat. "Is he in prison? I need to see him." I think of what Lauren said last night about smashing down doors.

"Hes on the CPS side."

"What?"

"Whos a more reliable witness in your opinion, Tim Breary or Lauren Cookson?"

I cant give him the quick answer he wants. No question about Tims character can be answered easily. He is both reliable and unreliable.

"Because they disagree," Gibbs says. "a.s.suming what youre telling mes the truth and shes claiming hes innocent."

"Every word Ive said is true." Gibbs words are the problem, not mine. I dont understand them. Who disagrees? With what? Is this how Lauren felt last night, trying to talk to me? "In an ideal world, Id be having this conversation after ten hours sleep," I say. "I know you probably dont mean to, but . . . please, can you not mess me around?"

"Tim Brearys confessed to the murder of his wife."

My stomach lurches. I swallow hard, do my best to breathe at the same time as keeping my throat shut tight. I compensated for lack of sleep with a big cooked breakfast at Cologne Airport this morning. It looked and tasted disgusting, but will give me enough energy to get through the day, if it doesnt end up splashed all over the table in front of me.

"If hes confessed, hes lying," I say once my stomach waves have subsided. He cant have. The article I read said nothing about a confession, only that Tim had been charged. "Why would he confess? It must mean . . ." I fall silent, temporarily unable to locate the meaning. I didnt expect a police station to be so much like an airport: being here makes me feel grainy, undefined, simultaneously lost inside myself and trapped outside my life.

"Youre too tired to work anything out," Gibbs says. "If you want to help Tim, answer my questions. You can think later."

If I tell him that I can usually do both at the same time-thinking and answering-will I come over as big-headed?

Youre pathetic. You want him to know that youre the great Gaby Struthers, but look at you. You cant keep a coherent idea in your brain for two seconds.

"What did you do after you Googled Lauren Cooksons name and found out about Tim?" Gibbs asks.

Fell apart. Am still falling. "Tried to convince myself to believe it," I say. "Made myself go through the search results on my phone systematically, reading as much as I could. I had no idea what Id do when Lauren came out of the bathroom, what Id say. I wanted to run away."

"Why?"

"Isnt it obvious?"

"The obvious thing would be to talk to her, wouldnt it?" Gibbs says. "Tell her that you know her innocent man and you dont think that can be a coincidence?"

"How can it not be a coincidence?" I wipe my runny eyes. "I know it cant be, but if it isnt, that has to mean-"

"Gaby," Gibbs interrupts me. "Youre exhausted."

Why is he telling me things I ought to be telling him?

"Dont put yourself under pressure. Its my job to work out whats going on, not yours." He smiles at me as if he wants to get his smiling practice over and done with for the day. Or maybe he wants to be warm and rea.s.suring, but doesnt know how to go about it. "Why did you want to run away from Lauren, once you found out her innocent man charged with murder was Tim Breary?" he asks.

"I wasnt thinking straight. I wanted to get back to the UK and the police as soon as I could. Not that tramping miles along the autobahn at night would have made that happen-which is why I stayed put."

"You said you wanted to run away. That suggests running from as well as running to."

Hes got me there. In exchange for his smile, I decide to tell him the truth. "Id mentioned Tim to Lauren already. Not by name, but Id told her about a man whod been important to me. Then to find out she must have meant Tim . . ." The red whirlwind roars louder.

"Take your time," Gibbs says quietly.

There is no time. I have to see Tim now, help him now. "I was scared shed walk out of that bathroom and Id grab hold of her and shake her till she told me everything: why she was letting Tim take the blame for a crime he didnt commit, how she knew he hadnt done it, who did it if not him. I didnt think Id be able to restrain myself. Shed have seen how much it mattered to me. Even someone as stupid as Lauren would have guessed it was Tim, the man Id been talking about."

"If she didnt know already," says Gibbs.

I nod. Its hard for me to keep this in mind: that Lauren might have had the upper hand all along. Must have had. "Id never have told her what I did if Id known she knew him," I say. The idea of her inaccurately reporting our conversation back to Tim makes my stomach churn with shame: She says shed ditch her bloke and pull you now, given half a chance. Please dont let that happen, G.o.d-that-I-dont-believe-in.

I reach for the chain around my neck and press it between my fingertips, wondering if Im desperate enough yet to start praying to a gold medallion. Do I still count as a traveler, Saint Christopher, even though Im back in the UK? Are you still the right person to be talking to, or did your shift end when I landed at Combingham? Is there a patron saint for women who love innocent men charged with murder?

"So why didnt you run away?" Gibbs asks.

"I had to find out the truth, for Tims sake. That mattered more than anything else." He cant have confessed. Any second now, Gibbs will tell me it was a lie, a tactic to get a reaction out of me. "The quickest way to do it was to stay and confront Lauren. Or so I thought."

"Go on."

"She was in the bathroom for ages. I was glad. It gave me a chance to get myself together. When she finally came out, everything was . . . too different, too quickly. I didnt have to say anything. As soon as she saw my face, and my phone in my hand, she knew. Ive never seen anyone look so guilty. She stood there like a block of stone, waiting for me to accuse her. I said, 'I know Tim Breary, Lauren. What the h.e.l.ls going on? She grabbed her jacket and her bag and ran." I dont tell Gibbs, because its too humiliating, that I was sitting cross-legged on the floor when Lauren darted out of the room, that in my shock it hadnt occurred to me that she might try to escape, even though shed run away from me before.

"I went after her, but she was too fast-she was in the lift before I got to the door. I thought I might be able to catch her if I ran down the stairs, but there was no sign of her in the lobby. I went outside, shouted her name, ran up and down the autobahn like a lunatic. I even went back to the grotty petrol station, but she was nowhere."

"So what did you do?"

It wont help him to know that I fell down in a heap on the wet, muddy forecourt in the pouring rain and howled at the top of my lungs, helpless with frustration and rage. "I went back up to the room. Tried to work out what the h.e.l.l was going on, tried to get some sleep. Failed at both. I ended up writing Lauren a long letter-begging her to tell me what was going on, basically."

"What did you do with the letter?"

Nothing, yet. Its in my bag. "I tore it up," I lie. "It was full of personal stuff about me and Tim." True. "I read it through and decided I wasnt comfortable with the idea that it existed, let alone the thought of Lauren ever reading it. I just had to do something to calm myself down."

"And in the morning? Lauren wasnt there for the coach at seven a.m.?"

"No. Nor at the airport, nor on the flight home. We landed, and I came straight here."

Gibbs writes something down on the notepad on the table between us. From where Im sitting, it looks like a pattern of squiggles that wouldnt be improved by being turned the right way round. "If her fear of being in a foreign country on her own was genuine . . ."

"It was," I say.

"Then she was even more scared of answering your questions, once she knew you knew. She was willing to go it alone and miss her flight, get back to the UK later, increase the risk of her husband finding out shed lied to him."

"She knew Id force the truth out of her," I say, wondering if Id have resorted to physical violence. Probably not, not then. I would today, now that Ive had a chance to think about it: Id put my hands round her stupid throat and squeeze until she told me everything.

"She wouldnt have been able to sustain a lie over a long period, a.s.suming she could come up with one in the first place," I say. "She hasnt got the psychological resources. When you find her, it wont be hard to get her to talk. You can speed things up by telling her what youve worked out. Then all she has to do is agree."

Gibbs looks up at me. "What Ive worked out?"

"Shes lying to protect her husband. Jason Cookson killed Francine Breary. He must have."

"For the sake of argument, why couldnt it have been Lauren herself?" Gibbs says. "From your description, she sounds volatile-easily provoked."

"And from my Internet search results, I know that Francine had a stroke two years ago and couldnt move or speak. How do you provoke someone into committing murder when youre mute and immobile?"

Gibbs nods matter-of-factly. This is the second time Ive made a good point and hes seemed bored. Hes an odd man.

"Lauren isnt and couldnt be a killer," I tell him. "Shed think it was . . . unfair to murder someone, whatever theyd done."

"Unfair?" His mouth twitches. Hes mocking me.

I cant be bothered to explain what I mean. "I know Ive only met her once, but it was a very long once, and it felt even longer. She didnt do it. Can you say the same about her husband?"

"I cant, but Tim Breary can. Hes pretty sure he killed his wife. He ought to know, dont you think? Hes told us things that only the person responsible would know."

"Unless the person responsible shared their knowledge with someone else, which you cant guarantee they didnt," I snap. Why is everybody I meet so stupid? "Why did he kill her? Was he trying to help her? Was it so she wouldnt suffer anymore?"

Gibbs brushes my unent.i.tled questions aside with an officially sanctioned one of his own. "What does Tim Breary stand to gain by protecting Jason Cookson?"

Bringing Jason into it was a mistake. I know nothing about him, but Im tired and scared and angry, so I pretended I did, or forgot that I didnt. Thats why Gibbs mentally demoted me.

Time to prove him wrong.

"If I had to pick, from everyone Ive ever met, the one person who might confess to a murder he didnt commit for a reason that would make perfect sense to him and no sense at all to anybody else, Id pick Tim Breary," I say.

Something Gibbs said is brushing awkwardly against the back of my mind. Three words: stand to gain. "Who benefits from Francines death apart from Tim?" I ask.

"Thats restricted information."

"Im guessing Tims the main beneficiary, if not the only one. I know he and Francine both had life insurance policies."

"How?" Gibbs pounces on this as if its a revelation.

"Tim was my accountant for years." I wonder if that sounds wrong to DC Gibbs. It sounds wrong to me, though its completely true. It makes my relationship with Tim sound safe and boring. "When my partner, Sean, and I were buying our house, Tim shopped around for mortgages and life insurance for us."

"That explains how hed know you had life insurance," said Gibbs. "It doesnt explain your knowing the same about him and Francine."

Smart-a.r.s.e. "He told me," I say irritably. "I asked him. I wanted to check that what he was recommending for me was something hed done himself. I always do that. Never spend money unless the person advising you thinks its worth his money too, right?"

Gibbs isnt listening. Or rather, hes listening to the voice in his head thats whispering, "Shes in love with Tim Breary, and she knew his wifes death would be profitable."

I refuse to think like a guilty person when Ive got nothing to hide. I didnt murder Francine, and if anyone tries to suggest I did, Ill simply ask when she was killed and then direct DC Gibbs to whatever flight I was on at the time and the many airline operatives and pa.s.sengers who will be able to confirm my whereabouts. One advantage of being a workaholic with a packed schedule is that alibis are easy to come by.

Under Gibbs incisive gaze, my bravado wears off quickly. Have I put my foot in it and made things worse for Tim? How can I have, when hes confessed to Francines murder? For all I know hes sitting in a prison cell right now, holding up a banner that says in capital letters, "I DID IT FOR THE MONEY."

Except that wouldnt have been his motive. Not in a million years.

I straighten up in my seat. "If Tim were ever to commit murder, it would be for someone elses sake, not his own," I say. "He wouldnt be the beneficiary."

"Thats an unusual character trait to have," Gibbs says woodenly. "Most of the murderers I meet arent so public-spirited."

"Its true. Tim wouldnt think it was worth the fuss, just for him. Even for someone else, he wouldnt do it. Its too extreme. Tim hates extreme . . . expressions, extreme actions, more than anything, because they make people vulnerable. They allow others to control you and . . . know you too intimately. Tim likes to glide along the surface. He likes controlled and ironic, letting things happen, pretending nothing matters even when it does."