“Yes,” said Kate, “as soon as we’ve finished speaking to you. There’s one other thing. Where were you between the hours of four-thirty last Friday evening and seven-thirty the next morning?”

Coxon was unworried. “I thought you’d get round to that. I was teaching here from three-thirty until seven-thirty, three couples with gaps in between. I then made myself spaghetti bolognese, watched TV until ten o’clock and went to the pub. Thanks to a benign government which allows us to drink until the early hours, that’s what I did. The landlord was serving, and he can confirm that I was there until about one-fifteen. And if you care to tell me when Robin died, I daresay I could produce an equally valid alibi.”

“We don’t know yet, Mr. Coxon, exactly when he did die, but it was on Monday, probably between the hours of one o’clock and eight.”

“Look, it seems ludicrous to be supplying an alibi for Robin’s death, but I suppose you have to ask. Luckily for me there’s no problem. I lunched here at half past one with one of our temporary teachers, Alvin Brent—you met him at the door. At three o’clock I had an afternoon session with two new clients. I can give you their names and addresses and Alvin will confirm the lunch.”

Kate asked, “At what time did the afternoon lesson end?”

“Well, they were supposed to get an hour, but I had no immediate engagements so I let it overrun a bit. It was half past four by the time they left. Then I worked here in the office until six, when I went to the pub—the Leaping Hare, a new gastropub in Napier Road. I met a pal—I can give you his name and address—and was there with him until about eleven when I walked home. I’ll have to look in my address book for the addresses and phone numbers, but I’ll do that now if you can wait.”

They waited while he went to the desk and, within a few minutes of riffling through his address book, found a piece of paper in his desk drawer, copied the information and handed over the paper. He said, “If you have to check, I’d be glad if you’d make it plain that I’m not a suspect. It’s bad enough trying to come to terms with the loss of Robin—it hasn’t hit me yet, perhaps because I still can’t believe it, but believe me it will—and I don’t fancy being seen as his murderer.”

Benton said, “If what you’ve told us is confirmed, I don’t think there’ll be any risk of that, sir.”