It was eight thirty when the questions came to an end. Oliver and I were summoned to the police station for fingerprinting and DNA swabs; it wouldn’t take long. Before we left, the detective asked one more question. It was the one I’d been waiting for.

‘Who was first on the scene?’ Kent watched me, waiting for my knee-jerk reaction. I didn’t speak immediately. Instead, I pointed. Then in a slow concise voice, I said, ‘Oliver. He was here when I arrived; hunched down over the body.’

73

Arthur

I bought six different newspapers on the morning the headlines hit.

Barnet Murder

Brutal Homicide of local school teacher. Suspect in custody.

Baseball Bat Bloodshed

I spread the papers out in the front of my car, parked in a service station off the A1M on my way to Peterborough. It was all so perfect.

Three days had passed since the event and I felt distinctly piqued that the police hadn’t seen fit to call on me. After all, I was Rebecca’s boyfriend. Also I was eager to hear intimate details of the aftermath. I might soon be on the suspect list but I was confident I’d left no trace of my presence at the scene.

School teacher, Mitch Dawson, thirty-eight, was bludgeoned to death in his own flat on Wednesday night. A blood-splattered baseball bat was found at the scene. The murder took place between five and seven o’clock, and witnesses are asked to come forward with any information which might help police with their enquiries. If you were in the area of Lower Station Road, Barnet, early on Wednesday evening, please contact the crime office on…

A picture of the Target, taken when he was considerably younger, beaming broadly between his mother and his father, was on the front page of every broadsheet. Other than the photograph, there was little information about the victim’s past. There was nothing new, nothing I didn’t already know, no sordid titbits. I’d hoped for a few words describing the force with which the murder weapon had been wielded; perhaps mention of the unrecognisable nature of the corpse.

I decided to dump the stash of newspapers in various places around the country and chucked the first one in the forecourt litter bin of the service station. I didn’t want to be flagged up as having an unhealthy interest in this particular case, by hanging on to the reports. You could never be too careful. I then restarted the car and continued my journey to Peterborough where I was to drop off several thousand packets of sedatives.

‘Hey Ho Silver Lining’ blasted out from the tinny radio. I turned up the volume and banged the wheel victoriously as I careered up the motorway, euphoric at the masterful outcome of all my planning.