He was still under some strong emotion, whether grief, fear or perhaps a mixture of both, and looked as if he hadn’t slept. His skin was drab, the forehead beaded with sweat, and the blue eyes darkly shrouded. But he had recently shaved and Benton detected a confusion of smells—soap, aftershave and, when Boyton spoke, a trace of alcohol on his breath. He had managed in the short time since his arrival to make the room look untidy and dirty. The draining board was piled with food-encrusted plates and smeared glasses and the sink held a couple of saucepans, while his long black coat hanging over the back of a chair, a pair of muddy trainers near the French window and open newspapers strewn on the coffee table completed the air of general dishevelment, a room temporarily occupied but without pleasure.

Looking at Boyton, Benton thought that his was a face that would always be memorable: the strong waves of yellow hair falling without artifice over the forehead, the remarkable eyes, the strong perfect curve of the lips. But it wasn’t beauty which could withstand tiredness, sickness or fear. Already there were signs of incipient decadence in a draining of vitality, the pouches under the eyes, a slackness of the muscles round the mouth. But if he had fortified himself for the ordeal, when he spoke it was without slurring.

Now, turning, he gestured towards the stove and said, “Coffee? Tea? I haven’t had breakfast. In fact, I can’t remember when I last ate, but I mustn’t waste police time. Or would a mug of coffee count as bribery and corruption?”

Benton said, “Are you saying you aren’t fit to be questioned?”

“I’m as fit as I’m likely to be, given the circumstances. I expect you take murder in your stride, Sergeant—it was ‘Sergeant,’ wasn’t it?”

“Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith and Detective Constable Warren.”

“The rest of us find murder distressing, especially when the victim is a friend, but of course you’re only doing your job, an excuse these days for practically anything. I expect you want to take down my particulars—that sounds indecent—my full name and address, if the Westhalls haven’t already provided it. I had a flat but I had to give it up—a little difficulty with the landlord about the rent—so I’m lodging with my business partner in his house in Maida Vale.”

He gave his address and watched while Constable Warren wrote it down, his huge hand moving with deliberation over the notebook.

Benton asked, “And what job do you do, Mr. Boyton?”