A police interview is obviously different from a comedy festival appearance or a press interview, but since I didn’t have time to draft a new list specially for Culver Valley CID, I emailed the all-purpose list to the detective I spoke to on the phone and told him to do his best.

Tuesday, 6 January 2015

I’m met in the police reception area by the same man I spoke to on the phone: DC Christopher Gibbs. With barely a word spoken, we’re off to a not-ideal start. His first question is: ‘Was that list a joke?’

‘No.’

‘You’re a comedian, though,’ he says suspiciously. We established on the phone that he’s heard of me but never heard me. He doesn’t like stand-ups; he prefers sketch shows and sitcoms because they’re ‘a team effort – not all about someone’s ego’.

If my team contained DC Gibbs, I’d root for my opponents. He’s a small, muscly man in his forties with eyes like black pebbles, a bunched-up forehead and thick, dark brown hair in a once-short style that needs a trim.

‘I’m a comedian,’ I confirm. ‘That doesn’t mean I’m always joking. It’s like you and police work. When you go to the dentist, you genuinely want your teeth checked. You’re not there to make the dentist confess to murder.’ You fucking idiot.

‘And you think you can help us with Billy?’

‘I know I can.’

‘This had better not be a wind-up, Ms Tribbeck.’

‘I came here with serious intentions,’ I tell him. ‘Although I’m finding you quite amusing. Don’t forget number sixteen on my list: “If something happens between you and Kim when you meet that she later wants to use in her act, she reserves the right to do so. In having any dealings with her, you risk being used as material.”’

‘There’s nothing funny about me,’ says Gibbs. ‘No one so much as smiles at anything I say, apart from … ’ He stops.

‘Do tell.’

‘I give my mate a hard time sometimes, about the way he carries on with women. That makes people laugh,’ Gibbs says in a monotone.

‘Right.’ I try not to imagine those people, or how desperately bored they must be if this scowling drone is their idea of a fun night out. ‘Well, I wish we could chat all day long, but I need to get this done and get on with my life, so … ’

My life. Is it possible that Billy Dead Mates wants it to end? It seems so unlikely. It’s not me I’m worried about, in any case.

‘Follow me,’ says Gibbs. ‘We’ve got the only interview room that has a window you can open. It’s locked at the moment, but it does open.’

‘Interesting,’ I mutter as I trail after him along a high-ceilinged, echoey corridor with bare brick walls. ‘Are you going to unlock it when we get to the room?’

‘No. I don’t think anyone’s seen the key for months, if not years.’