Joe was in his forties but didn’t look it. He was like many men who grew up in small communities: always looking like boys, then suddenly old. There was never the gradual corrosion of features as they aged. He scratched his smooth chin and ran his blue eyes, still lustrous, over Manolis.

‘Hi, Joe,’ Manolis said kindly. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant George Manolis. You already know Sergeant Fyfe. Thanks for coming down. First of all, sorry about the seating arrangements.’

Having removed the excess garden furniture from the tearoom, Manolis had offered Joe a plastic milk crate as a seat. It was a tactic sought to heighten the suspect’s discomfort and set up a feeling of dependence.

‘Don’t mind,’ Joe said casually. ‘The base of me bed is crates.’

Fyfe let out a derisive laugh.

Joe ignored him. ‘Look, this gonna be quick? I gotta get back to me dogs, they’re hungry.’

After assuring him it would not take long, Manolis opened with a series of non-threatening questions. Joe looked at him from a long way away, pausing before he spoke but ultimately answering all that was asked. Fyfe shoved a blob of tobacco under his upper lip and sat quietly chewing, brooding, sneering.

Eventually, Joe interrupted Manolis’s questioning. ‘Look, Dick Tracy, save it. I know why I’m here. I didn’t kill her, orright?’

Manolis held up his left hand in a stopping gesture. ‘No one’s saying that, Joe. One thing at a time.’

Joe scratched at his flabby pectoral. ‘Honestly, ever since she slapped me in the pub that night, my dick went limp,’ he said bluntly. ‘I lost interest, never called her again. Frigid bitch. Check my phone records if ya want.’

Manolis remembered the supposed nuisance calls Molly had been getting and decided to call his bluff.

‘Go right ahead,’ Joe reiterated. ‘I got nuthin’ to hide.’

There was a long pause as the three men looked at each other. Manolis consulted his notepad, flipping through the spiral pages. ‘Joe, do you have any idea who might’ve wished harm on Molly? Even if it’s just a feeling. A sense of unease about someone, something you heard her say, something that didn’t quite sit right?’

Every single question was met with a headshake. ‘Like I said, ain’t seen her in ages. I haven’t a clue about any of that stuff. What she did, who she saw.’

Manolis sketched in his pad, pretending to write notes. He was drawing lines, connecting them, doodling. Fyfe cracked his knuckles so loud that it sounded like he’d snapped a finger. A pentagram soon materialised on Manolis’s page. He stared at it a moment, becoming aware of what he’d accidentally drawn. Looking up, he asked Joe about his whereabouts the night Molly died.

Joe folded his freckled arms across his hairless chest. ‘I already told that young copper you sent over. I was at the pub.’