The police car was parked outside my flat when I got back. A female officer, with very shapely legs encased in seamed black stockings, was questioning passers-by as I got out of the car. A rough-looking man, with the appearance of a homeless hobo, leant against the panda car. He glanced up and down the road. One hand shielded his eyes from the dazzling sunlight and the other one pointed a zapper at the vehicle doors. I heard the locks clunk shut as he approached.

‘Good afternoon.’ I smiled, jiggling my house keys up and down in my left hand as I approached the front door.

‘Mr Beck? Arthur Beck?’ The grizzled policeman produced an identification card and stepped forward in front of me, blocking my path.

‘Yes. I’m Arthur Beck. Can I help you?’

‘Yes. I’m Detective Kent and this is WPC Quinn. We’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s okay. It’s in relation to a recent murder in Barnet on Wednesday night.’ Despite his weather-beaten face with its complex myriad of wrinkles, this cop had a near perfect set of dazzling white teeth.

‘Of course. Would you like to come in? I heard the news. Dreadful.’ I smiled confidently at the detective and his stockinged sidekick. As I went to unlock the door, I noticed Mrs Kennedy talking to some random person further up the street. She waved when she noticed me. Thank God for burst pipes.

Inside the flat, the first thing that hit was the overwhelming stench of fresh paint. The walls were redder than I’d intended and certainly more garish than I’d have liked. Perhaps they needed toning down a tad.

‘I see you’ve been painting.’

‘Yes, but I should have let some air in. What a stench.’ I threw open all the windows and the bright spring sunlight shone through. ‘Coffee?’ I offered.

‘No thank you. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts on Wednesday night. This is an informal chat so we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’ We all sat down. DCI Kent, WPC Bluestocking (I’d already forgotten her real name) and myself.

The detective filled me in on the crime that had been committed and I was subsequently asked a series of bland and uninspired questions. Where had I been on Wednesday evening between the hours of five and seven? Did I know the victim? Could anyone verify my whereabouts? I was being questioned, apparently, because of my relationship as a recent ex-boyfriend of Rebecca Carrington, who had been present at the scene of the crime.