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gracious–not in a superficial way, but gracious down to the bone. Even his anger was self-contained; he knew just how far he could take it before a relationship was irrevocably damaged. He always held the reins, had control of himself.’
    ‘Where is he now?’
    ‘Stoddard Clinic. In Fulham. Actually, it is a pleasant place, very handsome, well cared for, expensive, obviously. There are few patients; it’s geared to handle only a few. He’s been there for about eight months now.’
    ‘Is he better?’
    Harry shook his head. ‘He really couldn’t be. Hugh’s not psychotic, not mad; it’s more like obsession. Like Othello, perhaps. Or Iago.’
    Jury smiled. ‘Not Iago. If revenge had really obsessed Iago, he could never have been as canny as he was. He would have taken a more immediate route to destroy Othello. He wasn’t working at white heat. He wasn’t caught up in his passions. On the contrary, I think Iago was dispassionate. I don’t think any reason one could scare up would explain him any more than we can explain why Hamlet acted as he did. I think Iago ruined Othello because he could. Just that. Because he could.’

10
    There’s a house in Surrey I want you to check out,’ said Jury, looking across at Wiggins, who was ministering to his mug of tea.
    ‘The estate agent’s called Forester and Flynn, and the agent handling the lease is a Marjorie Bathous. See what you can find out about it. The house is allegedly owned by a man named Benjamin della Torres.’ It occurred to Jury that if Winterhaus brought only a host of bad memories to Ben Torres, then why wasn’t he selling it rather than leasing? But Jury supposed one could be addicted to bad memories as well as good.
    ‘Just a tick,’ said Wiggins, extracting the tea bag from his mug. He then set about administering one of his holistic remedies.
    He put a couple of spoonfuls of some bizarrely blue liquid into the tea. Following that, three spoonfuls of sugar, which ought to undo whatever good the blue stuff was supposed to do, so what was the point?
    Jury told himself he would not ask. ‘What’s that stuff?’
    ‘Oh, it’s jojobu juice. Very good for the digestion.’ Wiggins stirred and smiled.
    Jury crossed his arms and warmed his hands in his armpits. Or perhaps this attitude was a defensive measure taken against the jojobu juice. ‘It’s blue like those awful blueberry iced lollies we used to eat when we were kids.’ Possibly, Wiggins still did.
    With pursed lips, Wiggins slowly shook his head. ‘This tincture is good for you; iced lollies aren’t. All sugar, they are.’ This, coming from a man who’d added three teaspoons of sugar to his tea. But Jury let that pass. ‘Tm not contesting the nutrient value of iced lollies; I’m questioning the value of that stuff.’ Jury leaned his head to indicate the small bottle of blue liquid.
    ‘You always do, sir. I’ve never known anyone so skeptical when it comes to what’s good for your health. How often do I get sick compared to you?’
    ‘Around five to one. You get sick five times more often.’ Condescension ratcheted up several bars in the look and tone of voice Wiggins used. ‘Now, you know that’s not the case at all.’
    ‘Ten to one, then. Ten for you, one for me.’
    Wiggins sighed and shook his head. Hopeless.
    Jury sat considering, looking at Wiggins. ‘What do you think about the liar’s paradox?’
    ‘Don’t think I know that one, sir.’
    ‘Well, listen: ‘I am not lying.’’
    ‘Never said you were, did I?’
    ‘No, no. I don’t mean me, personally. I’ll change it: ‘I am lying.’ You see? The statement in and of itself creates a problem, doesn’t it? Think about it. The statement itself.’
    Wiggins tapped his fingers on his Ed McBain paperback as if to summon support.
    Jury sat forward, sighing. ‘Look, the 87th precinct isn’t going to help you here. ‘I am lying.’
    ‘I. Am. Lying.’’
    Wanting to indulge his boss in this quirky discourse,