‘And you’re sure you’ve not seen him since?’ asked DI Lansbury, his beard moving effortlessly in rhythm with his jaw.

‘Absolutely,’ I replied, smiling and unblinking.

‘And can I just ask what you were doing on the evening of Thursday 6th September?’

I thought for a moment.

‘Let’s see. I think I’d have just had a quiet night in. Yes, that’s right. I remember now. I was watching Murder, She Wrote. It was the one in which she investigates the murder of a popular neighbourhood greengrocer, who was found choked to death on his own kumquats. Do you know you share your surname with Angela Lans—’

‘Yes, of course I know that,’ he snapped, with some irritation, as if this coincidence may have been mentioned to him before. ‘A night in? I don’t suppose you have any witnesses for that, do you?’

‘Um, no, I don’t. Apart from the cat.’ I laughed loudly. He didn’t join in.

‘That’s fine. Not to worry, sir. As I say, we’re just making routine enquiries. It’s not as if we’ve found a mutilated corpse, is it!’ he joked, staring intently at me.

I smiled uneasily. ‘Quite,’ I said.

‘Now Sergeant Tuck just has a few brief questions to ask you for our records.’

I helped him fill in the form, experiencing that uncomfortable feeling of exposure I somehow always get when my particulars are taken down.

Tuesday September 25th

Custard Creams: A Love Sonnet

How do I scoff thee? Let me count the ways.

I dunk thee in my morning cup of tea,

thy vanilla centre dost gladden me

and gives me strength to face the darkest days.

My hunger for thee contains no bandwidth,

we meet at breakfast and elevenses,

at three o’clock and half-past-sevenses,

divine delectable biscuit sandwich.

Thou dost pick me up whene’er I stumble.

Thou dost make me feel I’m not a misfit.

Thou art always there. Thou dost never grumble.

To be with thee, my whole life I’d risk it,

For my love for you shall never crumble,

My beloved creamy custard biscuit.

There are times when there is simply no substitute for a custard cream. These times are typically from 7am to 10pm, at the following intervals: 00, 15, 30, 45. There is something about their vanilla-custard filling and the baroque carving of the outer sandwich layers which lends itself to the practice of contemplation and study. And never had I felt more in need of them than today.

They couldn’t seriously believe that I had something to do with Toby Salt’s disappearance, could they? But there was something in DI Lansbury’s manner which suggested they did. Regardless, the main thing was to play it cool. No one was pointing their finger – not even a Rich Tea finger – at me yet.

I went out into the garden to check up on things in the shed.

Wednesday September 26th

The Picture in the Attic