‘Do you know Mark Bretherick?’ asked Simon.

‘No!’

‘Did you know Geraldine or Lucy Bretherick?’

‘No, but I know how they died, and I don’t want anything to do with it!’

An odd way to phrase it, thought Charlie. ‘But, according to you, you haven’t got anything to do with it,’ she said. ‘You don’t know the Bretherick family. You’ve never known them.’

‘Well, obviously this Esther Taylor knows something about them, or Sally does, and I don’t want anything to do with any of them. I don’t want to be attacked in the middle of the night when I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong!’

‘All right,’ said Charlie. ‘Try to calm down.’

‘What did Esther Taylor look like?’ Simon asked.

‘About my height. Short, blonde hair. Glasses. A bit like the blonde one out of When Harry Met Sally, but uglier and with glasses.’

‘She didn’t look anything like Geraldine Bretherick? Do you know what Geraldine Bretherick looked like? Have you seen her photograph in the paper?’

Pam nodded. ‘No, this woman looked nothing like her.’

Charlie watched Simon watching Pam. What was he waiting for? She’d answered his question.

‘Actually…’ Pam’s hanky was taut in her lap, her left and right hands waging a subtle tug of war. ‘Oh, my God. Sally looks like Mrs Bretherick. I didn’t think of it until you just said… Why did you ask me that? What’s going on?’

‘I need Sally’s address and telephone number and as much detail about her as you can give me,’ said Simon. As Pam spoke, he frowned and nodded, committing her words to memory. Charlie made notes. Simon looked surprised only when Pam mentioned that Sally Thorning’s husband, Nick, was a radiographer at Culver Valley General Hospital. Once he’d got all the information he could out of her, he left the room.

Charlie followed him, closing the door on Pam’s questions and demands. She was expecting to have to chase after Simon, but she found him standing motionless outside the interview room. ‘What?’ she said.

‘I think I saw When Harry Met Sally. She said, “the blonde one out of When Harry Met Sally”. Which is Sally, obviously, because Harry’s the man.’

‘I’ve seen it too. After a hopeless start, they get married and live happily ever after,’ said Charlie pointedly.

‘You’re called Charlie. Charlie can also be a man’s name.’

‘Simon, what the fuck…?’

‘I know where I’ve seen the name Harry Martineau.’

‘The man who lives in the Olivas’ old house?’

‘No. He doesn’t exist. That’s why no one’s heard of Angel Oliva at Culver Valley General, the hospital where Nick Thorning works.’

‘I’m completely, utterly lost,’ said Charlie.

‘Jones is the name. Jones: the most ordinary name in the world.’

‘Simon, you’re beginning to frighten me. Who’s Jones? The killer? The man Sally Thorning met in the hotel?’

‘No. Come on, we’ve got to get back to the briefing.’

‘I’ve got my own work to do! I can’t just leave Pam…’

Simon strode down the corridor. Charlie found herself running after him. As always, she wanted something from him that he was not making readily available. It wasn’t her case, it was nothing to do with her, but she needed to know what he meant.

They hadn’t got far when they saw Norman Grace from HTCU hurrying towards them. ‘I was on my way to find you,’ he said to Simon.

‘What have you got?’

‘You were wrong…’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘… but you were also right.’

‘ Norman, I’m in a hurry.’

‘The name’s Jones,’ said Norman, and Charlie’s skin turned cold.

‘I know.’ Simon broke into a run.

Not so much as a thank you. Charlie shrugged apologetically. ‘Sorry,’ she said to Norman. ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet.’

‘Can you tell him I’m hanging on to the Bretherick hard disk for the time being? There’s more, but it’ll take me a while to get it into a presentable state.’

Charlie nodded, and was moving away when Norman touched her arm. ‘How are you, Charlie?’

‘Fine, as long as no one asks me how I am,’ she said, smiling.

‘You don’t really want that. You don’t want people not to care.’

Charlie ran down the corridor, hoping she hadn’t missed anything, wondering if Norman was right. Would she prefer everyone to forget about last year? To treat her exactly as they had before?

She found Simon round a corner, on his mobile phone. He was telling somebody that he needed them to come to Spilling, saying that as soon as possible would be great. He gave the address of the nick. Charlie had never heard him sound so eager or grateful. Jealousy wasn’t an issue; it was obvious he was speaking to a man. Simon never sounded so unguarded when he spoke to women.

‘Who was that?’ she said once they were on the move again.

‘Jonathan Hey.’

‘The Cambridge don? But… Simon, you can’t just invite your own expert to the party without checking with Sam first. What about Keith Harbard?’

‘Harbard knows nothing.’

When he was in this sort of mood, Charlie knew there was no point contradicting him. If he thought Hey was that much better than Harbard, he was probably right. It wouldn’t stop Proust from taking one look at the second sociology professor to land at his feet and despatching him back to Cambridge without refreshments or an explanation.

Poor Jonathan Hey. What a fool, saying yes to Simon Waterhouse.

‘“Change it back”?’ Proust surveyed Gibbs from across the room. ‘Is that supposed to mean something to us? Change what back? Change it back to what?’

‘The password,’ said Gibbs. ‘It must be. To get into Amy’s Hotmail I had to change it. Whoever set up the account must have tried to get in using the old password and failed.’

‘And worked out that you changed it? How would he have known?’ said Kombothekra.

‘Intelligent guess. I sent a message to Amy’s Hotmail address, so he knew I knew about it. He wants us to see how clever he is. Look at the new e-mail address he created, not more than a few minutes after I broke into his old one: amysbackfromspain@hotmail.com. He’s trying to be witty.’

‘Or she,’ said Keith Harbard. ‘Gibbs is right about the wit; to me that suggests a woman.’

‘Have you never read Oscar Wilde, Professor?’ Proust enquired.

‘He’s not that clever,’ said Sellers. It sounded as if he might have been talking about Harbard; Gibbs suppressed a smile. ‘ “Change it back.” How can we? We don’t know what the old password was.’

‘He knows that,’ said Gibbs impatiently. ‘It’s a threat, isn’t it? He knows he’s giving us an impossible order.’

Harbard nodded. ‘It’s part of the game. Either it’s a guarantee of punishment with a bit of psychological torture thrown in-she appears to be giving you a chance but it’s not a real one because you can’t possibly know her original password-or she’s inviting you to think about what the password might have been. Maybe it was her name.’

‘That’s a point,’ said Kombothekra. ‘Thanks, Keith. I’ll get on to Hotmail.’

‘In the meantime, reply to the message,’ said Harbard. ‘She’ll be flattered. Tell her you can’t think of a way forward, that you need her help with the task she’s assigned you.’

‘Psychological expertise as well as sociological,’ muttered Proust. ‘Buy one, get one free. Unlike you, Professor, I don’t care about our perpetrator’s inner demons or what makes him tick. Give me his name, tell me where I can find him and I’ll be happy. Let’s concentrate on information, not speculation. We’ve identified the two skeletons-that’s a good start.’

‘Harry Martineau and Angel Oliva have become top priority,’ Kombothekra told him. ‘Nobody at Culver Valley General Hospital can remember a heart surgeon called Angel Oliva, and their records suggest he never worked there. So either Martineau was lying or Oliva lied to Martineau.’

‘We’re still checking,’ said Sellers, ‘but it looks as if no child or teacher at St Swithun’s knows a William Markes. Cordy O’Hara’s new ride’s called Miles Parry.’