I hop up and walk over to the wall. The handwriting is messy, like it has been scrawled in a hurry. It has been written in capital letters and some of the paint has run down the wall joining a number of the letters together, creating the type of writing often found on t-shirts belonging to death metal bands.

Liam has noticed me staring at the wall so he walks over to see what has captured my attention and we spend a few moments looking at the writing which reads ‘TICK TOCK.’ I pull out my phone and take a picture of the writing.

‘What do you reckon this means?’ he asks.

At the minute, we can’t even be sure that the killer has written this. It could be purely coincidental. However, if it was him, then this is a clear message with a less than clear meaning. Liam suggests that he could be telling us that we don’t have long before he kills again. As we continue to hypothesise, a noise behind us brings our discussion to an end.

‘Hi,’ says a man, giving a small wave in our direction, ‘I’m the landlord of the pub. I was the one who found the body this morning. A man who was here earlier said the detectives would probably like to speak to me.’

The inside of the pub does not match the exterior. The polished wooden bar running the length of one wall houses a number of pumps offering a choice of beers, both international and local, whilst a range of receptacles containing various spirits hang in front of a large mirror at the back of the bar. A fruit machine trills and flashes in a corner of the room and a number of identical tables and chairs fill the rest of the space. A door on the back wall conceals the stairs to the toilet upstairs.

‘Not what you were expecting, eh?’ says the man from outside, setting two steaming hot chocolates on the table for Liam and me. ‘I love seeing the look on people’s faces when they come in the doors expecting a cesspool only to be confronted with this!’

Ciaran, the landlord, is a short man with curly ginger hair. He’s wearing the emerald rugby top of his national team and speaks very quickly. I think he has noticed my narrowed eyes, the concentration I’m exerting in trying to understand what he is saying, as he has slowed down considerably since we first met, ten minutes ago.

I thank him for the hot chocolate and take a small sip, burning the tip of my tongue slightly, before taking my recording device and setting it on the table.

‘You mind?’ I ask Ciaran. His bottom lip juts out and he shakes his head.

‘Ciaran, for the purposes of the tape, can you confirm your identity?’ He leans forward, as if being a few more inches nearer the tape is going to improve the clarity of the recording.