To be fair to the woman, she looks genuinely concerned. She might not give a monkey’s, of course, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to tell the difference.

‘Always,’ I say.

Hang out the flags, Shaun the Silent has begun communicating again.

Notice I don’t say ‘speaking’, because apparently that would be asking a bit much, but he’s . . . making himself known.

Something, I suppose.

So, quarter of an hour ago, I sit down next to him to have my lunch and, without looking at me, he scribbles something on a serviette, scrunches it up into a tiny ball and presses it into my hand. A special secret message, just for me. He doesn’t seem massively bothered when I open it up there and then, but that’s probably because of what it says.

this mince tastes like dog-shit.

No, it’s not exactly the Gettysburg Address, but it’s a start, right? So I immediately rush off to grab some paper, then come back to see if Shaun has any other words of wisdom to impart. It’s got to be worth a try, because if he knew about Debbie killing Kevin, then chances are he knows who her accomplice is.

Who killed Debbie.

So far, bugger all, but let’s wait and see?

There’s the usual noisy chatter, because by now quite a few others have been interviewed, same as I was, and are mad keen to tell everyone how it went. L-Plate’s twittering about her interview like she’s just been given the third degree.

‘I didn’t think those two women were very nice,’ she says. ‘The ones on Sunday were much nicer. Mind you, they took some of my clothes away with them.’

‘Mine too,’ Lauren says. ‘My best T-shirt and joggers. I’d better get them back or I’ll be kicking off big time.’

I pointed out that clothing samples had been taken from everyone, staff included. Without stating the blindingly obvious and telling them it was because they were all suspects, I reassured them that it was standard practice.

‘Really though, they were a bit . . . fierce,’ L-Plate says.

‘Probably lesbians,’ Ilias says. The voice of reason as always, spraying the table with gobbets of shepherd’s pie.

I didn’t think French and Saunders were fierce at all, but I suppose it’s daunting if you’re not used to it. Or if you ­haven’t been on the other side of the table yourself, like I have. I need to keep reminding myself that this lot are civilians, that they don’t know the game. When Donna asks when they’ll be taking our fingerprints and DNA, I gently remind her that it’s already on record, because the last lot did all that and your DNA doesn’t change from week to week, whatever she might have seen on CSI.

Lauren tells me I’m a smartarse.