“Suspect, Jenkins. Not prisoner yet. This is the nick, not the Scrubs,” the inspector snapped. “He’s under arrest on suspicion of murder, and he’s going to help us with our enquiries. Someone else in the law and order business will have the pleasure of finding him guilty if I decide to charge him. At that point, he becomes the prisoner and goes up the road to the Castle Hill jail to await trial, judgement and sentencing, which will most probably be execution by hanging. Until then—technically—he’s innocent. Innocent but under restraint. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. If you say so, sir,” Jenkins muttered doubtfully. New to the job, the constable was still a bit uncertain in his dealings with his unpredictable boss, Chief Smarty Pants of the Criminal Investigation Department, who seemed to be making it up as he went along. And then he’d account for his eccentric methods as “The New Policing.” Pat on the back one minute, boot up the bum the next; Jenkins had experienced both and understood the reason for neither. He was never sure how far he could venture an opinion. Sometimes it was encouraged. At the moment, the governor was smiling. Jenkins would chance his arm. “You’ve seen him, sir! The suspect? Bit on the mouthy side and slippery as they come, but . . . well . . . he’s not exactly in his prime, is he? No danger to anyone. From a standing start, my granny could—”

“I have quite a few questions of a tedious nature to put to this gent. Our first attempt at conversation was interrupted. It may take some time, and I don’t want him getting bored, excusing himself on a technicality, and legging it down the High Street before I’ve wrung the last drop out of him. Our guest is—as you’ve noted—slippery. The last time he did something naughty, he disappeared into the long grass for twenty years. Let’s take no chances, shall we? Chop, chop!”

“My dear Detective Inspector Redfyre! I’ve been patience on a monument throughout your preliminaries, but—really! That’s an entirely redundant question you’ve just asked.” The voice was out of keeping with the appearance—firm, even authoritative. Coming from the stage of the London Old Vic, every syllable would have been heard in the back row of the stalls, coming from the pulpit, every word would have been believed. “Shall we pass to the next one on your list? I’m sure you ought to be attempting to ascertain my whereabouts between the hours of midday and midnight on Saturday, the seventeenth of May. Last month, that is.”

“Indulge me.”