Kind of Cruel by Sophie Hannah

patient voice that was designed to make Simon wonder if he really wanted to go on giving his DI cause to be patient. ‘It proves only that we haven’t found any of them yet. You’re assuming our mystery words link only a handful of people: a murder victim, a killer, and your Hewerdine woman conveniently in the middle. I’m telling you – and being dismissed by your gargantuan arrogance – that those words might link a million people. Or they might link only fourteen people in a bland and harmless way that has nothing to do with murder.’
    Proust walked up to Simon and knocked on his forehead as if it were a door. ‘We don’t know that the imprint of those words on the pad in Katharine Allen’s flat has anything to do with her death.’ The inspector looked to Sam and Sellers for support. ‘Well? Do we? We found other words at her flat too – the list on the fridge, to take one example: “Renew parking permit, Christmas Amazon order” and the rest. If Waterhouse had bumped into a woman this afternoon who’d told him she needed to renew her parking permit, would he have sent his homunculus Gibbs to wait outside her house with a lassoo in his hand and an evil glint in his eye?’ Proust snorted his appreciation of his own joke. ‘It’s laughable, Waterhouse – and by “it”, I mean “you”.’
    ‘I’m not going to argue with you, sir,’ said Simon wearily. Sir? Where had that come from? He hadn’t called Proust ‘sir’ for years. ‘I’m not going to argue with a position you’ve adopted just to piss me off. You know, I know, we all know: “Kind, Cruel, Kind of Cruel” is a sufficiently unusual collection of words for us to take this seriously.’
    ‘If you’re so keen to talk to the Hewerdine woman, why have Gibbs pick her up?’ Proust snapped. ‘Why have him start the interview on his own? Have you devised a special training programme for him that the rest of us aren’t privy to? The Simon Waterhouse Diploma in Self-Indulgent Coincidence-based Policing and General Mania?’
    Simon saw Sellers trying not to laugh. ‘I asked Gibbs to bring her in to buy me a bit of time,’ he said. ‘I wanted to grill Charlie on the details, talk to Ginny Saxon, talk to you . . .’ He knew he had to take the plunge, but was putting it off as long as he could. ‘You need to know something about Gibbs. I’m going to tell him I told you, but . . . it’s easier for me to do it if he’s not here.’
    ‘You’ve made a star chart for him,’ Proust pre-empted. ‘Every time he stuffs his career prospects further down the pan by running errands for you instead of completing the tasks assigned to him by Sergeant Kombothekra, he’s awarded a gold star. Once he’s earned ten, he gets to drive your mother to church and—’
    ‘Making a lot of jokes, aren’t you?’ Simon cut him off. ‘Pity you’re too mean-spirited to acknowledge the cause of your new good mood: the lead I’ve brought you.’
    ‘The lead Sergeant Zailer brought you,’ the Snowman corrected him.
    Simon sighed. Talking to Proust was like trying to force a car to start, over and over again, when that car had already been crushed to a metal cube. ‘It’s likely we’re going to be putting Charlie’s notebook into evidence,’ he directed his words at Sam. ‘ I think it’s likely, anyway. So, you’re all going to end up seeing what else is in the notebook, besides those five words.’ Simon pointed to them. ‘Rather than have you stumble across it, I’ll tell you: it’s letters. From Charlie to her sister Olivia, not written to be sent.’ Simon stared down at the table. ‘Written to give her anger an outlet.’
    Proust made for the notebook like a bird of prey.
    ‘Are they still at loggerheads?’ asked Sam, who believed that harmonious relationships were both desirable and possible.
    Sellers was taking a sudden interest in the view from the window: the Guildhall across the road that was having work done to its exterior. It was