‘Yes, how can I help you?’ I replied, unable to hide the nervousness beneath my skin. I’m not good with authority, never have been, not since my headmaster at junior school shouted at me so furiously in his office that my nose started to bleed and one of my gloves shrank.

‘I’m DI Cowley and this is DI Wilmott from Peckham CID. Could we come in for a word?’

‘Yes, of course, come in. What’s this all about?’

I sat down on the sofa. Wilmott and Cowley remained standing. It was clear from their expressions that they didn’t think much of my lack of home comforts. Wilmott was wearing one of those dark green anoraks with a tan corduroy collar, a bit of the countryside in the streets of Peckham. The two front pockets were tainted with greasy marks and judging from his physique I would guess they were pasty- or sausage roll-based. His face was round, pale and on the bloated side of full. It was framed by dark, thinning, side-parted hair and to its south a pale blue polyester shirt and much-abused tie. He had a barrelled chest and a beer belly suitable for sleeping four adult pigeons. His legs, however, were skinny and stick-like, causing his dark brown slacks to struggle to find a patch of skin to rest on. This body shape was a classic example of someone on steroid medication. Rheumatoid arthritis was my guess.

‘This your place, is it?’ asked Wilmott.

‘Well, yeah, I rent it, but it’s my place. I’ve been here about two years.’

‘Could I ask you where you were last night, Gary?’

‘Yeah, sure, I was in the Grove Tavern pub. I went there straight after work to meet a friend.’

‘And did you come straight home after the pub?’

‘Yeah, I walked home on my own, got in about 10:45. Sorry, but could you tell me what this is about?’

‘What was the name of the friend you were meeting?’

‘Brendan, Brendan Jones. I know him through work.’

‘And did Mr Jones leave with you?’

‘No, he left much earlier, maybe 7:45. Look, please could you tell me what’s going on?’

‘We are sorry to have to inform you, Mr Thorn, but your friend Mr Jones was found dead last night. We are trying to get a handle on his last movements. It seems from our enquiries that you may have been the last person to have seen him alive.’

‘Shit, fuck… poor bloke. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened to him? Where was he found?’

‘You don’t need to concern yourself with that. Just answer our questions if you don’t mind.’