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Authors: Sophie Hannah
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relaxed. The Snowman wasn’t one step ahead; he was flexing his sarcasm, the strongest muscle in his body.
‘Dressed him as a black and white minstrel and sent him to wait in the wings?’
A grin passed across Sellers’ face, but he couldn’t hold it. The room’s humour-neutralising atmosphere of clenched fury was too strong.
‘There must be a reason why Gibbs is the only one of us not here, so let’s have your most imaginative suggestions.’ Proust turned to face his audience, taking care to look only at Sam and Sellers. ‘Sergeant? Detective? For once, I’m inviting wild speculation. Thanks to Waterhouse, we have been forced to unlock our cramped consciousnesses and enter a dimension in which anything is possible.’ Every word pulsed with controlled outrage, as if the Snowman alone comprehended the doom that awaited them all. ‘In our exhilaration, we have forgotten that – naming no names, and sparing finer feelings – some things ought not to be possible.’ Finally, Proust looked at Simon – a look that made no bones about assigning him to that special category.
‘Gibbs is interviewing a woman called Amber Hewerdine,’ Simon said. ‘I need to join him, soon as I can. I want the chance to question her myself. You’re not going to like how this happened,’ Simon looked at Proust as he spoke, ‘but you’d be crazy if you didn’t like the result, which is the first lead we’ve had so far on Katharine Allen.’
‘Are we sitting comfortably?’ Proust muttered, turning back to the window. ‘Then let him begin.’
‘Amber Hewerdine, thirty-four, lives on Clavering Road in Rawndesley, works for Rawndesley City Council in the licensing department. She made an appointment for three o’clock today to see a hypnotherapist called Ginny Saxon in Great Holling. I don’t know what Hewerdine went to see her about – Saxon’s refusing to tell me – but while she was there, waiting outside, she met Charlie. Charlie also had an appointment with Saxon, for two o’clock. She wants to quit smoking, a couple of people have told her hypnotherapy worked for them . . .’ Simon wanted to say more – that it was a practical, rational solution to a common problem – but he stopped himself. Having done his best to assure Charlie that there was no need for her to be embarrassed, no reason for secrecy, Simon was determined not to feel embarrassed himself.
‘Saxon was running an hour late, which seemed to be a problem for Hewerdine, so Charlie offered to switch appointments. She was happy to delay hers. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it anyway. She and Hewerdine had a brief conversation outside Saxon’s house. While they were talking, Charlie was sitting in her car with an open notebook on her lap. Hewerdine might or might not have seen what was in the notebook.’ Simon produced it from the inside jacket pocket he’d forced it into, and slapped it down on the table, so that the Snowman would hear what he was missing by turning his back on the room.
The gesture had no effect. As if he were conducting a recorded interview with a suspect, Simon said loudly and clearly, ‘DC Waterhouse is taking a blue leather soft-backed notebook out of his pocket and putting it on the table. He’s opening the notebook at the relevant page, the page Amber Hewerdine could have seen. Written on it are the words we all know: “Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel”. In black ink, laid out like a list.’ The notebook wouldn’t stay open at first. Simon had to bend the covers right back. ‘You all know Charlie’s handwriting,’ he said. ‘Those of you who can be bothered to look can see it’s her writing.’
Sam Kombothekra’s eyes widened. There was an urgent question in them for Simon, one he couldn’t answer. I don’t know why . He thought he’d heard some people – he didn’t know who, where, when – describe the way he felt as ‘demob happy’. Except that in his case it was inappropriate; he wasn’t
‘Dressed him as a black and white minstrel and sent him to wait in the wings?’
A grin passed across Sellers’ face, but he couldn’t hold it. The room’s humour-neutralising atmosphere of clenched fury was too strong.
‘There must be a reason why Gibbs is the only one of us not here, so let’s have your most imaginative suggestions.’ Proust turned to face his audience, taking care to look only at Sam and Sellers. ‘Sergeant? Detective? For once, I’m inviting wild speculation. Thanks to Waterhouse, we have been forced to unlock our cramped consciousnesses and enter a dimension in which anything is possible.’ Every word pulsed with controlled outrage, as if the Snowman alone comprehended the doom that awaited them all. ‘In our exhilaration, we have forgotten that – naming no names, and sparing finer feelings – some things ought not to be possible.’ Finally, Proust looked at Simon – a look that made no bones about assigning him to that special category.
‘Gibbs is interviewing a woman called Amber Hewerdine,’ Simon said. ‘I need to join him, soon as I can. I want the chance to question her myself. You’re not going to like how this happened,’ Simon looked at Proust as he spoke, ‘but you’d be crazy if you didn’t like the result, which is the first lead we’ve had so far on Katharine Allen.’
‘Are we sitting comfortably?’ Proust muttered, turning back to the window. ‘Then let him begin.’
‘Amber Hewerdine, thirty-four, lives on Clavering Road in Rawndesley, works for Rawndesley City Council in the licensing department. She made an appointment for three o’clock today to see a hypnotherapist called Ginny Saxon in Great Holling. I don’t know what Hewerdine went to see her about – Saxon’s refusing to tell me – but while she was there, waiting outside, she met Charlie. Charlie also had an appointment with Saxon, for two o’clock. She wants to quit smoking, a couple of people have told her hypnotherapy worked for them . . .’ Simon wanted to say more – that it was a practical, rational solution to a common problem – but he stopped himself. Having done his best to assure Charlie that there was no need for her to be embarrassed, no reason for secrecy, Simon was determined not to feel embarrassed himself.
‘Saxon was running an hour late, which seemed to be a problem for Hewerdine, so Charlie offered to switch appointments. She was happy to delay hers. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go through with it anyway. She and Hewerdine had a brief conversation outside Saxon’s house. While they were talking, Charlie was sitting in her car with an open notebook on her lap. Hewerdine might or might not have seen what was in the notebook.’ Simon produced it from the inside jacket pocket he’d forced it into, and slapped it down on the table, so that the Snowman would hear what he was missing by turning his back on the room.
The gesture had no effect. As if he were conducting a recorded interview with a suspect, Simon said loudly and clearly, ‘DC Waterhouse is taking a blue leather soft-backed notebook out of his pocket and putting it on the table. He’s opening the notebook at the relevant page, the page Amber Hewerdine could have seen. Written on it are the words we all know: “Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel”. In black ink, laid out like a list.’ The notebook wouldn’t stay open at first. Simon had to bend the covers right back. ‘You all know Charlie’s handwriting,’ he said. ‘Those of you who can be bothered to look can see it’s her writing.’
Sam Kombothekra’s eyes widened. There was an urgent question in them for Simon, one he couldn’t answer. I don’t know why . He thought he’d heard some people – he didn’t know who, where, when – describe the way he felt as ‘demob happy’. Except that in his case it was inappropriate; he wasn’t
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