"You are?"
"Oh, yes..."
"That's good then. Glad the tax I pay hasn't completely gone to waste."
"What aren't you telling us, Marcus?"
I've heard those words before, too; only he didn't call me Marcus, not back then."I thought you weren't suspecting me of anything? Should I call my lawyer?"
This counter appears to work. Reeves leans back and assures me that I am not a suspect. He apologises for ever giving me the impression that I was. The minor victory is enough incentive for me to continue with my approach.
"What makes you think I'm not telling you everything?"
"So you're not?"
"Listen. I was the one who came to you. Remember? Why would I come to you if I had something to hide? You don't piss on a wall and then go and tell a copper. I came to you because I was worried. You didn't appear to share my concern. I told you everything. Now, I'm having a kip today and you come knocking on my door with your sidekicks. Right now, it seems you need me more than I need you. What has changed? It seems, from where I'm sat, that you're the one who isn't telling me everything..."
Reeves' eyes don't move away from me as he pulls open his drawer, ready to throw the first metaphorical punch. There was me thinking he only had a piece of paper and a pen in his armoury. He lays something down on the table and then pushes it forward so that it sits underneath my nose.
"I'd like you to take a look at the photograph please, Marcus, and then tell me whether you recognise the man."
So, it is a man. I don't want to look at the photograph. Reeves is hardly showing me his holiday snaps. Rubbing my swollen eyes, I look to the ceiling, seeking solace. I remember the fan in the interview room thirty years ago that went round and round and round but never, ever got anywhere near to fighting off the sweltering heat. DCI Baldwin brushed the sweat from his forehead so many times it left his cuff stained and discoloured. As the hours passed, the energy appeared to drain from his body and his face turned a jaundiced yellow. But still he persisted, like a boxer that keeps getting back up on his feet.
"I'm not going anywhere," he whispered in my ear, leaning across the table, clammy hands leaving prints on the table. "I can wait all day for you to tell me what you're keeping quiet..."
My eyes fixed on that fan, going round and round, blowing hot, stale air around the room. I said nothing.
I suck in the fresher air from this room, then look down at the photograph. My throat fills with bile. My mouth feels like I am chewing a battery. I shake my head.
"His name is Ken," I say. "He works at the supermarket close to where I moor my boat. He puts the trolleys away."
"He was a good friend of yours, was he?"
"Was?"
DCI Reeves' voice softens. "I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you this, Marcus, but Kenneth John Hooper was found dead at approximately 14:40 yesterday afternoon. He was bludgeoned to death with a sharp instrument. Mr Hooper was found in a pathway just away from where he worked, by somebody walking their dog."
Of course, I knew he was dead as soon as I saw his mug shot. I just needed to go through the formalities. It must have been where he took his cigarette breaks, where he'd just come from when I brought him a coffee the last time we met. It was off the beaten track. Why him? I barely knew him. In a way, that was a good thing. I already knew he hadn't got to anyone close to me. Of course, I spoke to my dad, Jenny and Emma on the phone straight after I spoke to him. Of course, I broke down in tears as soon as I heard their voices. And Erica was waiting for me when I got back to the boat. It wasn't good that Ken had died, but in a perverse way it was good that it wasn't somebody else. But then...but then he died because of me, didn't he? Why else? That meek, harmless man would still be alive if our lives hadn't crossed.
"Take a few moments, Marcus."
"Sorry," I say, genuinely confused now, "what was it you asked?"
"How did you know Kenneth Hooper?"
"I didn't," I reply. I stare down at Ken's blank eyes. "I mean, we've met. I just wouldn't say I know him. We've spoken a few times, but only in the last couple of weeks. Come to think of it, we met the day after I came to see you. He was getting picked on by a group of young kids. He wasn't the sharpest, to be honest. He was an easy target. I stuck up for him, helped him out. Whenever I passed by after that I stopped for a chat."
"You must be a much more social being than I am," DCI Reeves says. "I don't normally stop and chat with the men who put away the trolleys in supermarkets."
I don't respond.
"So you're telling me he had enemies?"
"Listen, he was a sweet, simple guy. Like I said; he was an easy target. He was a victim. I don't know anybody who would have wanted him dead. Certainly not those kids. They were all bravado and no balls. They virtually ran away when I faced them down."
Reeves slowly nods his head. To all intents and purposes, he appears to have given the green light to what I said. "Mr Hooper was stripped of his shirt and he had Roman numerals engraved in his chest..."
He leaves the words hanging. My
