Like a pair of fat sleazy Bobs.

DC French looks up and says, ‘I understand you were the one who found Miss McClure’s body on Sunday afternoon.’

I tell her that she’s spot on.

‘That can’t have been a particularly pleasant experience.’

‘I’ve had worse,’ I say.

‘Really?’

I look at her, then watch as DC Saunders – who’s obviously done a bit more in the way of preparation – leans across and whispers something, then begins turning her colleague’s pages for her and pointing something out. I’m assuming it’s all there. The flat in Mile End. What happened to Johnno.

‘Oh yes.’ French looks up and nods sympathetically.

When asked, I tell them exactly what I’d told the detective a couple of days ago. The body and the blood, the CPR until Marcus and Malaika arrived, the knife on the floor underneath the sink. Predictably, they ask me the same daft questions about anyone I might have seen going in or coming out of the toilets before me. I say much the same thing I said on Sunday, though I’m a bit less sarky about it.

‘It’s a shame you even need to ask,’ I say. ‘I mean, you’d know exactly who’d been in and out of the toilet if that camera hadn’t been buggered about with.’

French’s chair squeaks as her arse shifts in it.

‘You’d be making an arrest by now, am I right?’

Saunders clears her throat and says, ‘No, it’s not ideal.’

She looks away, all set to move on. She doesn’t change her face, doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give any indication that they think a camera being put out of action again could be even the slightest bit suspicious. Not ideal? I tell you this for nothing: any faith I might have that this second investigation will be handled any better than the first is already being seriously tested.

‘There’s something we wanted to clear up,’ French says.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘We’ve been told by the ward manager that, a short time before Miss McClure was killed, you had accused her of being involved in the murder of a patient here just over a fortnight ago. Kevin Connolly?’

So, that’s why Marcus was being weird with me at that meeting yesterday. Debbie had obviously gone running to him as soon as I’d confronted her, probably moaning about unacceptable verbal abuse or some such. Bleating to her boss about me having another one of my delusions or the need for stronger meds to control my fantasies about still being a police officer.

‘Well, I’d known she was involved in that murder for a while,’ I say. ‘I only told her to her face on the Friday. About forty-eight hours before she was killed.’

‘I see.’