‘No comment it is then, Xander.’ She stands up and makes for the door. ‘And, Xander, for Christ’s sake, say no comment to every question. Not just the ones you don’t like.’

I nod rapidly. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’

The interview resumes. The formalities are rehearsed all over again. I study Conway for any hint of a change in his demeanour but his face gives nothing away. Blake, however, seems to have hardened. There are no more half-smiles. I am not sure whether that is to deny me or to appease Conway.

‘So, to pick up from before we stopped the interview, Mr Shute, to allow you to consult with your solicitor, are you satisfied you have had enough time to speak with her?’

‘Yes,’ I say. Jan glares at me and immediately I try and correct the mistake. ‘No comment.’

‘So, what did you do with the money, Mr Shute?’

‘No comment.’

‘As you know we became aware of this matter because of you reporting the murder of a young woman. Do you recall telling us that there had been a murder at 42B Farm Street?’

‘No comment.’

‘Would you agree that since there has been a young woman murdered at number 42B, that it stands to reason you were there?’

‘No comment.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘No comment.’

‘How did you get into the house? Were you invited in?’

‘No comment.’

‘Or did you break in?’

‘I did not break in,’ I say, unable to resist.

‘So how did you get in?’

‘No comment,’ I say, despite the tug to say something in my defence.

‘Actually, we don’t believe you did break in. There was no record of a break-in. Police at the time couldn’t be sure there was a murder. The coroner recorded an accidental death. But, Mr Shute, it wasn’t accidental, was it?’

‘No,’ I say. Jan slaps the desk in frustration at me. ‘I saw her being killed,’ I say. I can’t deny this. I have said this much already to police.

‘Yes. You told us that when you were being interviewed about the Squire murder. So, who do you say murdered her if it wasn’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say, anger building from nowhere.

Blake stirs and then says, ‘That’s not strictly true is it, Xander? What you told us in the interview was.’ She pulls up a sheet of paper from a folder in front of her and reads from it: ‘The woman. In the house. I saw her being strangled. By her boyfriend. That’s what you told us.’

Conway raises his eyebrows at me. Waiting.

‘No comment.’

‘We think we agree with you, Mr Shute. She was strangled by her boyfriend. But you were her boyfriend, weren’t you?’

‘I didn’t strangle her,’ I say, and as I do I am conscious that my voice betrays my own uncertainty.