‘Thank you, Mr Dufresne.’

The DA popped up.

‘You divorced her in the quickest way you could think of, didn’t you? You divorced her with a .38 revolver wrapped in dishtowels, didn’t you?’

‘No sir, I did not,’ Andy said calmly.

‘And then you shot her lover.’

‘No, sir.’

‘You mean you shot Quentin first?’

‘I mean I didn’t shoot either one of them. I drank two quarts of beer and smoked however many cigarettes that the police found at the turnout. Then I drove home and went to bed.’

‘You told the jury that between 24 August and 10 September, you were feeling suicidal.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Suicidal enough to buy a revolver.’

‘Yes.’

‘Would it bother you overmuch, Mr Dufresne, if I told you that you do not seem to me to be the suicidal type?’

‘No,’ Andy said, ‘but you don’t impress me as being terribly sensitive, and I doubt very much that, if I were feeling suicidal, I would take my problem to you.’

There was a slight tense titter in the courtroom at this, but it won him no points with the jury.

‘Did you take your .38 with you on the night of September?’

‘No; as I’ve already testified —’

‘Oh, yes!’ The DA smiled sarcastically. ‘You threw it into the river, didn’t you? The Royal River. On the afternoon of 9 September.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘One day before the murders.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s convenient, isn’t it?’

‘It’s neither convenient nor inconvenient. Only the truth.’