Last time: "At Cambridge, James never gave Helen more than the time of day, when he had to, and Sasha told me why, once."

"Now, this is where it gets tricky," Poole went on, fidgeting just a bit in the hard examination chair. "Three days ago, we all saw each other again, in the Palm Court restaurant, for the first time in years. And it was then, you see, I –"

Goodman was looking lost again. "Sorry, what did Sasha tell you, though?" he asked.

Camille Bordey put down the blog post. "It was then, at the restaurant, you began to think it wasn't Sasha, didn't you?" she asked, her whole body seeming to soften in sympathy.

Poole made himself ignore her for the time being, although not meeting her eyes did nothing to quell his sudden squealing of nerves. Meanwhile, Best had gone back to his desk, and Myers had followed, a bit more slowly, but both were now busier than beavers, finding something to do on their computers.

"Sasha told me, at Cambridge, about the money, the inheritance she was due to get on her marriage," he told Goodman. "Thing was, it was only for her, the designated heir. It seems the great-uncle or whoever made the bequest decided that, no matter how many children the Reeds had, the money would go to only the first-born child; Sasha. Helen was only eighteen months younger than her sister, and she wouldn't get a penny. James, well . . ."

Poole curled a hand nervously over the book, letting his fingertips ruffle the pages at a corner. Telling other people's secrets had not gone well for anyone in the past. "James' people were – comfortable, financially, but not more than that. When they'd first met, James had been the same toward both of the Reed sisters, but when he found out there was money, and Helen wasn't going to inherit, he – turned his attention fully to Sasha. Naturally, I suppose.

"And, at the Palm Court, well," he continued, turning back to the sergeant, "it was, I – I knew Sasha, you see. We had been friends at uni, and if I hadn't kept in touch all that time it was because it seemed like the thing to do, what with James being her husband. And, at lunch, it wasn't just an unwillingness to talk to me, it – was her whole manner, as if she couldn't, and it struck me," and he rapped the paper cover with his fingertips, illustrating his words; "if she couldn't, why? Because we didn't share those experiences anymore, because she wasn't Sasha?"

Goodman was going through his pockets as Poole spoke, eventually bringing out a golf pencil and a scrap of what looked like shopping list, and began to scribble. "But what's the point of bringing in Helen to pretend to be Sasha at a reunion?" he asked, dotting the paper with the pencil lead to make his point. "Even if it wasn't Helen who died in that crash, James would get the money they'd made selling SciTech."

The way they were both looking at him to resolve this question make Poole squirm a little, although he was still a fairish distance ahead of them, information-wise. "Well, um . . . as it happens, I know Angie Birkett too, and she . . . well, she doesn't have any problems talking." He paused to push past the memory of Angie in raptures at his asking her to go into the bar.

"After the lunch, Roger went off with the Moores and I sat with Angie for a bit. She wouldn't tell me anything specific of course; she's not scatterbrained when it comes to the law, but she mentioned that, in the summer of 2007, Sasha approached her in her practice. Solicitors; family law. It seems Angie was asked for by name and that's what got her some attention from the partners, so she was grateful to Sasha for remembering her when she wanted a rather unusual agreement drawn up. And, when it was ready, James and Sasha came to her office in Bristol, to sign it.

"Now this was after the SciTech sale went through, in April," he went on, leaning forward and catching up the book almost from under Sergeant Bordey's nose. He set it down so they could read the title, then arranged the blogs and the article in order. After a second's thought he pulled out the handkerchief and put it, folded neatly, between the first blog and the article.

"So," he went on, tapping the book, "Sasha's in uni, she graduates and marries; that was '94 and '95, respectively. About the time they buy SciTech in '99, James starts their newsletter, now their blog, eventually announcing, in April 2007," (tapping the first page now) "the SciTech sale and their retirement. Then," (tapping the handkerchief, which sent a tiny spasm of annoyance across the Sergeant's face, though the Inspector seemed oblivious) "Sasha gets Angie to draw up some sort of legal document in June, which James had to sign. Then comes the accident, in –"

"Early September," Goodman broke in, scanning the article under Poole's restless finger, "when Helen was killed, supposedly."

"And James announces it, on the net, immediately after," Camille Bordey finished, putting a fingertip on the second blog page before Poole could get at it to tap.

"Ah well, not immediately, Sergeant," he said, reaching to tap anyway. "There's an interval of almost a week between the article and the um, blog."

He had glanced at her as he reached out, and his keen interest in the pursuit faded instantly under her focused gaze. He pulled back his hand. "Then . . . well, then Sasha has plastic surgery on Saint Lucia, which isn't in any blog –"

"Naturally not," Camille Bordey put in, quick as a strike. She did a tiny, insistent tilt of her head when he looked at her, as if egging him on, and immediately, entirely out of character, he took the bait.

"But why would she have had it done? According to what I could find on the net, she sustained only minor injuries, nothing disfiguring. The Sasha I knew was never the sort to fuss over her looks, so was it just vanity? Or something else?"

Then he tapped the third and last blog, with a measured tempo, just so they knew this was important. "Then James announces, in December, after Sasha's 'little break' in the Caribbean, that he and she are moving to Spain, away from anyone who might know them."

The Inspector was staring at the papers, seemingly blank. Poole waited, hoping the man would see what he himself had, and risked a glance back at Camille Bordey, but the sergeant was still watching him.

"At the Palm Court," she began, softly, "the tables are pretty small. You sat across from Sasha?"

Well . . . Poole considered. He'd tried, mirroring how he and Sasha used to work in the UL, he realized now, but James had squired Angie into that seat, then plunked down next to Sasha, or Helen, cutting her off from any other neighbors, as she was on the end. Poole and Roger were shunted to the next table, not a comfortable situation for either of them. In fact, no one but James and Sasha/Helen herself had seemed happy with it.

"James made sure we didn't. In fact, when I got up to speak to the barman about the tips, James came at me. We ended up in a corner where he told me in no uncertain terms to stay away from his wife." Odd how much that still hurt; he supposed it was the accumulated scarring of all those years of him just not being good enough. Since Sasha, he'd been more timid than ever about women, even those who had been kind, so that now the sergeant's attentions affected him like the prickle of approaching fire, warning him away before he was burnt again.