DI Graham sat at the desk of the interview room, looking entirely at ease compared to the man opposite him, who was openly attempting murder by glaring, and the female solicitor sat at his side, who was tapping her nails on the desk and intermittently patting the glaring man’s arm. DC Janet Monroe perched on the edge of her chair next to Graham, pen poised to take notes. DCI Ava Turner, invited late to the party that morning after Andrew Jenson had been brought in for questioning, opted to stand in the corner, leaning against the wall.

‘At the present time, you are being interviewed voluntarily, as a witness. You are free to leave at any time, but I should warn you that we are pursuing an active line in this investigation and if you’re unwilling to answer our questions, it’s possible at a later date that you could be arrested and brought in for formal questioning. Do you understand?’

‘It’s not rocket science,’ Andrew Jenson retorted.

‘Do you consent to us recording this interview?’ Graham asked.

‘Yes, we know the form. Let’s make it quick, shall we?’ Jenson’s solicitor sniped.

‘As you wish,’ Graham said. ‘Mr Jenson, where were you during the evening of March the third when your father was murdered?’

‘At home, with my wife, watching TV,’ Andrew said.

‘And you didn’t leave your home all evening?’

‘Nope. My wife will back me up.’

‘Are there any other witnesses who might be able to confirm that?’ Graham asked.

‘In my house? It was just the two of us,’ Andrew said.

His face was an unattractive shade of purple and there was a single bead of sweat forming between his eyebrows.

‘What time did you get home?’

‘Nine thirty. After work I went to get a takeaway. My wife avoids cooking whenever possible.’

‘So what time did you leave work then?’ Graham clarified.

‘I’m not exactly sure. It was a frustrating evening. There was a long queue at the curry house and the staff were taking bloody ages to get the orders right.’

‘Roughly what time do you think you left?’ Graham persisted.

‘I’d have to check.’

Graham looked over to Janet Monroe, who flicked through a couple of pages in the file and scanned a page, pointing out a line of text.

‘You work for Borderline Airways, right?’ Andrew nodded. ‘CCTV there shows your car exiting the car park at 7 p.m. Does that sound about right?’

The solicitor leaned across and whispered in Andrew Jenson’s ear.

‘Yes,’ Andrew agreed.

‘So getting a takeaway and making it home took two and a half hours, then?’

No reply.

‘Which restaurant was it that you got the takeaway from?’

‘Prashant’s on Main Street.’

‘You know it?’ Graham asked Monroe.