‘Is there any doubt? The mother killed them both, didn’t she?’

‘Proust doesn’t think so. I don’t either.’

‘Why? Because of the letter I picked up at the post office? That’s bound to be some dick’s idea of a joke.’

‘Not only that. Did Kombothekra tell you about William Markes?’

‘No. Oh, yeah. The name in the diary? Simon, that could be anyone. It could be… I don’t know, someone she met one day who annoyed her.’

‘And the cards?’ Simon nodded at the table.

Charlie sat down opposite him, looked at them again. ‘Sam didn’t mention the cards.’

‘Sam is no detective. He hasn’t noticed anything wrong about them, and I haven’t told him what I think. I haven’t told anyone.’

Their eyes met; Charlie understood that Simon had been saving this for her.

She opened the first card again. It was odd to see the message-a message from Geraldine Bretherick to her husband-written out in Simon’s tiny, meticulous handwriting. ‘To my darling Mark, Thank you for ten wonderful years of marriage. I’m sure the next ten will be even better. You are the best husband in the world. Your loving wife, Geraldine.’ And three kisses. The second card-Simon’s writing again-said: ‘To my beloved Geraldine, Happy tenth wedding anniversary. You have made me so happy for the first ten years of our married life. I am looking forward to our future together, which I know will be every bit as amazing as the years we’ve had so far. All my love for ever, Mark.’ Four kisses on this one; Mark Bretherick had out-kissed his wife.

‘Aren’t people odd?’ said Charlie. ‘Course, it doesn’t help that it’s in your handwriting. Imagine you writing something like that.’ She giggled.

‘What would I write?’

‘Hey?’

‘If I’d been married for ten years. What would I write?’

‘You’d probably put “To whoever” at the top and “love Simon” at the bottom. Or maybe even just “Simon”.’ Charlie narrowed her eyes. ‘Or you wouldn’t send a card at all-you’d decide it was crass.’

‘What would you write?’

‘Simon, what are you driving at?’

‘Come on, answer.’

Charlie sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘ “To whoever, happy anniversary, I can’t believe I haven’t divorced you yet for your gambling-stroke-laziness-stroke-unsavoury sexual practices. Love you loads, Charlie.” ’ She shuddered. ‘I feel as if I’m taking my drama O level all over again. What point are you making?’

Simon stood up and faced the window. He always got twitchy when she mentioned sex. Always had. ‘Happy anniversary, ’ he repeated. ‘Not happy tenth anniversary?’

‘I might write that, I suppose.’

‘Both Mark and Geraldine seem obsessed with the number ten. It’s printed on the front of both cards and they each mention it twice.’

‘Isn’t ten years meant to be the first significant milestone?’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe they were proud of their score.’

‘Read the words,’ said Simon. ‘What sort of couple would write those things to one another? So formal, so elaborate. It’s like something from Victorian times. It sounds as if they hardly know each other. In your card, your imaginary card, you made a joke about gambling-’

‘Don’t forget the sexual practices.’

‘A joke.’ Simon refused to be sidetracked. ‘When you’re close to someone, you make jokes, little comments other people might not get. These read like the phoney, stilted thank-you letters I was forced to write to my aunties and uncles as a child. Trying to say the right thing, trying to drag it out a bit so that it’s not too short-’

‘You can’t be suspicious because there are no jokes! Maybe the Brethericks were a humourless couple.’

‘It sounds as if they weren’t a couple at all!’ Simon’s shoulders sagged. His posture became looser, as if he’d released some tension by voicing his suspicion. ‘These cards are for display purposes. I’m sure of it. They go on the mantelpiece and everyone who sees them is fooled. Kombothekra’s fooled-’

‘You’re saying their marriage was a sham?’ Charlie was getting hungry. If Simon hadn’t been here, she would have taken the pan out of the sink, decanted the chilli into another pan, heated it up and tried to ignore the burned bits and the taste of Fairy Liquid. ‘I’m going to ring a home-delivery curry place,’ she said. ‘Do you want anything?’

‘Curry and beer. You think I’m wrong?’

She considered it. ‘I would never in a million years write a card like that. You’re right, it’s that polite thank-you-letter tone, and I’d hate to be married to someone who expressed his feelings in that way, but… well, people’s relationships are peculiar. What newspaper do they read?’

Simon frowned. ‘Telegraph.’

‘Delivered every day?’

‘Yeah.’

‘There you go, then. They probably had Lucy christened even though they never go to church, and Mark probably asked Geraldine’s father for her hand in marriage and congratulated himself on his love of tradition. A lot of people are frighteningly keen on stupid formalities, especially the English upper-middle classes.’

‘Your folks are upper-middle class,’ said Simon, who had met Charlie’s parents only once.

Charlie waved her hand dismissively. ‘My mum and dad are Guardian-reading ex-hippies who like nothing better than a good old CND march at the weekend-it’s completely different.’ She opened a drawer, looking for the Indian takeaway menu. ‘As for the number ten… Did you find lots of home-made films at the house? Lucy blowing out the candles on birthday cakes, Lucy doing not very much in a bouncy chair?’

‘Yeah. Stacks. We had to watch them all.’

‘Some families are obsessed with recording everything, keener on filming their lives than they are on living them. The Brethericks probably wrote their wedding anniversary cards with the family keepsake box in mind.’

‘Maybe.’ Simon sounded far from convinced.

‘By the way, I don’t think much of your expert.’

‘Harbard?’

Charlie nodded. ‘He was on telly again tonight.’

‘Kombothekra’s shy,’ said Simon. ‘He can get away with taking a back seat with the media if Harbard’s on telly every day-CID’s pet professor.’

‘He seems cheap and nasty to me,’ said Charlie. ‘You can imagine him turning up on Celebrity Big Brother in a few years, once his career’s hit the rocks. He looks like a fat version of Proust, have you noticed?’

‘He’s the Anti-Proust,’ said Simon. ‘Kombothekra’s no expert, that’s for sure. He needs a few lessons on reading and summarising an academic text.’ Charlie mimed sticking her nose in the air, but he didn’t notice. ‘He’s scraping around for anything that’ll support his theory. He gave us an article today, Harbard’s latest, and made a big deal about one particular paragraph that said family annihilation is a predominantly middle-class crime, because the middle classes care more about appearances and respectability. He was trying to explain away all the interviews with Geraldine’s friends who swear blind she’d never have killed her daughter or herself-who know that she was happy. Kombothekra quoted this one paragraph, and that was supposed to prove that her happiness was just a front, that she was some kind of textbook case: someone whose life seemed perfect on the outside but whose unhappiness was building up in private to the point where she’d murder her own child-’

‘You can’t have it both ways,’ Charlie interrupted him. ‘Geraldine’s happiness wasn’t a sham but the anniversary cards are?’

‘I’m not talking about that any more,’ said Simon impatiently. And unreasonably, Charlie thought. ‘I’m saying Kombothekra misunderstood the article. Deliberately, because it suited him to do so. I’ll send you a copy, you can read it for yourself.’

‘Simon, I don’t work in-’

‘This thing about affluent middle-class people killing their families because they can no longer maintain the illusion of perfection? Later on-in the same fucking article!-it makes it clear that money’s always a big factor in those cases: men who have made the world believe in their wealth and success, and made their families believe it, who’ve been living way beyond their means and suddenly they can’t pretend any longer; things have slipped too far out of their control and they can’t sustain the fantasy however hard they try. Rather than face the truth, admit to everyone that they’re failures, and bankrupt, they kill themselves and take their wives and kids with them.’