Mrs Kennedy had already told him I’d helped stem the flow of water from a burst pipe. She was confident I’d stayed in all evening. She remembered the noise from my television which was still on when she went to bed around ten. I didn’t mention to the police officers that I often left my TV on when I went out. I liked the comforting presence it provided on my return. Mrs Kennedy didn’t mention this and I certainly wasn’t going to.

In regard to my relationship with the victim, I was able to confirm I’d never met him. How perfect the almost-truth was. On the question of Rebecca, I was careful. I answered succinctly, kept my tone even, and offered up the bare facts.

‘Yes, Rebecca and I were going out until fairly recently. She wasn’t ready to settle down and we were on a short break. No, I didn’t realise she knew the victim.’ Rebecca had never talked about the Target with me, having merrily scouted round their relationship history with aplomb. She had mentioned everyone other than Mr Dawson in passing conversations. I began to feel irritable as the words I relayed to this nosey bastard were not painting a clear picture as to the true nature of the relationship.

‘Did you know an Oliver Moreton?’ Kent continued. I was again confidently able to tell him that Rebecca had mentioned his name in relation to working at some art gallery in the West End but we’d never been formally introduced.

When the detective stood up and wandered round the flat, I set about asking a few questions of my own. It would have been odd not to be curious.

‘It says in the papers that a suspect is being held.’ I took a deliberate sharp intake of breath. ‘It surely can’t be Rebecca. I haven’t been able to get hold of her but understand she was found near the body.’

I watched WPC Bluestocking open all the kitchen cupboards and wander through my flat, picking up and putting down my personal belongings. I’m not sure the tome about the Yorkshire Ripper on my bedside table would send out the right message, but choice of reading matter couldn’t place me at the crime scene. I had been meticulous.

‘No. She’s not a suspect. You can rest easy.’ The detective turned to his colleague and nodded that it was time to go. ‘That’s all for now, Mr Beck. We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again. Thank you.’ With that they were gone.

Initial euphoria at the apparent success of my operation was soon replaced by an overwhelming sense of anti-climax. Alone in my red cavern, feet resting on the coffee table, I flicked between the various news channels to soak up every detail of the crime.