The Cradle in the Grave by Sophie Hannah Page A

you taking it the wrong way? And if I make you a cup of tea at the same time?’
    â€˜Say what you want. I’ll take it how I take it.’
    â€˜How reassuring. I feel so much better now. All right, then: I think you’ve got a dangerous obsession brewing. Fully brewed, actually.’
    Simon looked up, surprised. ‘Why, because I stayed up all night? I couldn’t sleep. Helen Yardley’s no more important to me than any other—’
    â€˜I’m talking about Proust,’ said Charlie gently. ‘You’re obsessed with hating him. The only reason you stayed up all night to read that book is because you knew there were references to him in it.’
    Simon looked away. The idea that he’d be obsessed with another man was laughable. ‘I’ve never had a murder victim who’s written a book before,’ he said. ‘The sooner I read it, the sooner I find out if there’s anything in it that can help me.’
    â€˜So why not read the copy Proust gave you? Instead, you go to Word – which isn’t on your way home from work, so you weren’t just passing. You went out of your way to go to a bookshop that might not even have been open last night, might not have had the book . . .’
    â€˜It was and it did.’ Simon pushed past her and into the hall. ‘Forget the tea. I’ve got to get washed and go to work. I’m not wasting time talking about things that never happened.’
    â€˜What if Word had been closed?’ Charlie called up the stairs after him. More pointless hypotheticals. ‘Would you have gone back to work and picked up the copy Proust gave you?’
    He ignored her. In his world, if you shouted a question at someone from far away and they ignored it, you left it at that, maybe waited till later to try again. Not in Charlie’s world. He heard her feet on the stairs.
    â€˜If you can’t bring yourself to read a book you need to read just because he gave it to you, then you’ve got a problem.’
    â€˜She rated him,’ Simon said again, staring at his exhausted face in the shaving mirror Charlie had bought for him and attached lopsidedly to the bathroom wall.
    â€˜So what?’
    She was right. If he found the disagreement of a dead woman unacceptable, he was as bad as Proust and well on the way to tyranny. ‘I suppose everyone’s entitled to an opinion,’ he said eventually. Maybe some of the Dalai Lama’s colleagues thought he was an arrogant twat. Did people in flowing orange robes have colleagues? If they did, was that what they called them?
    â€˜How much of your time is taken up with hating him?’ Charlie asked. ‘Eighty per cent? Ninety? Isn’t it bad enough that you have to work with him? Are you going to let him take over your mind as well?’
    â€˜No, I’ll let you do that instead. Happy?’
    â€˜I would be if you meant it. I’d get straight on the phone to that five-star hotel in Malaysia.’
    â€˜Don’t start that honeymoon shit again. We agreed.’ Simon knew he wasn’t being fair; unwilling to negotiate, he’d given Charlie no say in the matter, then tried to spin it so that it looked like a joint decision.
    What was it the Snowman had said? I know I can count on your support .
    Simon was dreading his and Charlie’s honeymoon. Next July was only nine months away, getting closer all the time. He was afraid he’d be unable to perform, that she’d be disgusted by him. The only way to stop dreading it was to reveal the full extent of his inadequacy even sooner.
    He brushed his teeth, threw some cold water on his face and headed downstairs.
    â€˜Simon?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Helen Yardley’s murder is about Helen Yardley, not Proust,’ said Charlie. ‘You won’t find the right answer if you’re asking the wrong question.’
    Â 
    Proust got out of his chair to open the door for Simon