The Other Half Lives aka The Dead Lie Down

makes more sense than it did the first time I heard it. At the moment, the way I see it, I’ve got one in the bag: someone in the right place at the right time, behaving irrationally and suspiciously-that someone being you.’ Not giving Simon a chance to respond, Dunning asked, ‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer?’

‘Off work. Sick.’

‘You mean at home?’

‘Far as I know.’

‘Was she in London with you yesterday evening?’

‘No.’

‘Where was she?’

‘At Ruth Bussey’s house.’ Simon sighed. ‘Look, we don’t have to have a problem here. I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll tell you what I don’t know but strongly suspect. Same goes for Charlie-Sergeant Zailer. You want to put your murder case to bed, the best way to do that quickly and efficiently is to let us help you.’

Proust stood up, leaning his hands on his knees as he rose. Simon had almost forgotten he was there. ‘If I’m about to lose DC Waterhouse, I need to find out where we’re up to on various things so that I can sort out handover. Can you give us a moment, DC Dunning?’

‘Handover?’ Simon echoed. How long did Proust think he’d be gone?

‘Fine.’ Dunning headed for the door. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’

Once they were alone, Proust said, ‘DC Dunning has tried several times to reach Sergeant Zailer at home, with no success. If you know where she is, I’d strongly advise you to share that information with him.’ The inspector sounded distant. Tired. For once, Simon wouldn’t have minded a spurt of his customary garrulous sarcasm. No point apologising for yesterday; he wasn’t sorry. The only mistake he’d made was to leave London when he did; he might have saved Gemma Crowther’s life if he’d stayed another hour.

He knew what he’d tell Dunning about Charlie: fuck all. She was in a state, and wanted as few people as possible to know. Proust, at least, wasn’t asking to be told; only that Simon should reveal all to Dunning. Handover. ‘Sir, much as I’d like to be shot of Nancy Beddoes, there’s no need to reassign anything of mine-chances are I’ll be back later today.’

‘There is no chance, DC Waterhouse, that you will return to this building later today, or tomorrow, or the day after.’

Simon regretted his attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Dunning’s trying it on, sir. He’ll change his tune. He knows I’m telling the truth and he knows I can help him.’

‘I had no choice but to try to explain your interest in Aidan Seed,’ said Proust. ‘Just so that we’re clear. Soon as I heard you’d been in London, I knew it had to be related to Seed. I presented the facts as fairly as I could, and I told Dunning you’ve got good instincts and a good track record. I couldn’t pretend you hadn’t had your ups and downs over the years, but I made sure to put them in context. I don’t believe I could have done any more.’

‘Sir, for…’ Simon felt his control slipping. ‘You’re talking as if we’re never going to see each other again. We both know Seed’s going to be charged with Gemma Crowther’s murder…’

‘Do we?’ The inspector turned away from Simon and faced the 2008 planner that was Blu-tacked to the wall behind his desk.

‘Forget Dunning for a second, sir. You agree with me, don’t you? Seed killed Gemma Crowther-he must have. Think of what we know for certain: Ruth Bussey said she was scared something bad was going to happen. Last night, she told Charlie Seed had been away a lot, lying about where he was. Turns out he’s been pretending to be a Quaker, to get close to Crowther. Knowing he was going to kill her. He told me he believed only in the material world, facts and science-so what’s he doing at a Quaker rally? Dunning asked me if I could gauge Gemma Crowther’s mood, but he didn’t ask me about Seed. While she was chatting away merrily, he had a face like a thundercloud.’ Like a man who knew he was about to kill somebody, as soon as the curtains were drawn. Simon kept the thought to himself, knowing how it would be received. ‘Ruth Bussey also told Charlie he’d changed his story: not that he’d killed Mary Trelease, but that he was seeing the future, a future in which he was going to kill her.’

‘DC Waterhouse…’

‘Sir, we’ve got to treat that as a threat, and act on it. Tell me that’s going to happen, whether I’m here or not. We can’t leave this to Dunning. Do you trust him, after what you’ve just heard? I don’t. Mary Trelease is ours, not his. Dunning doesn’t care if Seed’s on his way round to Megson Crescent with a shooter while he’s wasting time leafing through my Reg 9s-it’s not his patch, is it?’

‘Enough,’ said Proust quietly.

Simon was determined to stir him up. ‘Ruth Bussey told Charlie last night that a man’s been hanging round outside her house, showing an unhealthy interest. Charlie thought she was probably imagining it, until Bussey showed her the CCTV footage. ’

‘CCTV?’ It was difficult to read a person’s back, but Simon had the impression from the sudden tensing of the shoulders that Proust regretted asking, allowing himself to be drawn in.

‘Bussey lives in the lodge house at the entrance to Blantyre Park. Apparently she was so concerned about this man that she asked her landlord to install surveillance cameras. Anyway, soon as Charlie got a look at his face, she recognised him. His name’s Kerry Gatti. He works for First Call.’ Simon knew Proust would have heard of the firm, and waited for him to ask in what capacity Gatti was employed there, or to comment on the cruelty of giving a boy a girl’s name. Nothing. ‘He’s a private investigator, sir,’ Simon told him.

No response.

‘Did you hear what Dunning said about Gemma Crowther’s partner? He got back at midnight. The meeting must have finished at nine, or thereabouts. How long does it take to clear up a hall? Is the boyfriend a suspect? An associate of Seed’s, perhaps? What’s Dunning told you that he hasn’t told me?’ Simon picked up the empty mug on Proust’s desk, made as if to launch it at the back of his head. He replaced it with a bang; even that got no reaction. ‘Len Smith’s got to be Seed, right?’

‘Call DC Dunning back in,’ said Proust. ‘You can discuss your concerns with him, from Crowther’s boyfriend’s alibi to your bafflement over the inconsistency of Aidan Seed’s metaphysical position.’ Finally, he turned round. The surface of his skin was webbed with colour; his face looked like a blood-blister waiting to burst. ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t answer your questions about this case. Because of your apparent involvement in it. This is what you set in motion when you deliberately deceived me and Sergeant Kombothekra and charged down to London to meet the Light Brigade. This: the situation we find ourselves in. I’m sorry if it’s not to your taste.’

Simon was pleased to get a response. ‘Mary Trelease said “Not me”, when Charlie told her Seed had confessed to killing her. She said it twice-“Not me”. Charlie thought she was trying to suggest Seed had killed someone else.’

Proust’s eyes moved to the glass that separated his cubicle from the CID room. Dunning, watching from the other side, saw him looking and started to inch towards the door. The Snowman raised a hand to stop him. ‘What was Ms Trelease’s response?’ he asked. ‘I assume Sergeant Zailer asked her if that was what she’d intended to imply.’

‘She denied it, sir. But she would, wouldn’t she? If she’d fully made up her mind to talk, she’d talk. If she was scared, though, maybe she’d only risk a hint-the sort that can easily be explained away if you lose your nerve.’

‘Where’s Sergeant Zailer today? She’s not ill in bed, is she?’

Simon’s answer was too slow in coming, as slow as the change in the Snowman’s demeanour was instant. The eyes glazed and froze, the face slackened. So this is how it feels to be cut loose, thought Simon, as Proust gestured for Dunning to come back in and take out the rubbish.

Dominic Lund chuckled. ‘You’re on a hiding to nothing,’ he told Charlie, his mouth full of spaghetti bolognese. A line of oily orange sauce snaked down his chin. ‘If a case could be made, I’d happily take your money and make it, even if we were guaranteed to lose. I like cases like that. Usually win them too. This, though? You know it’s a joke, right?’ He delivered his expert opinion without once looking at Charlie, then laughed again, as if to illustrate his point. She’d noticed that he preferred not to look at people directly; he’d dictated his food order to his open menu, not to the waiter standing beside him with a notepad.

Lund was an intellectual property lawyer, a partner at Ellingham Sandler’s London office. He was tall, dark, heavily built, fat around the middle, and looked to be in his mid-forties. Olivia had recommended him. ‘I doubt there’s anything you can do about it,’ she’d said on the phone last night, ‘but Dominic Lund’s the person to ask.