‘How many, would you say, roughly?’

‘We shared a bottle of champagne and then a bottle of red wine. And a cocktail. I’m not really a big drinker, so that was quite a lot for me.’

‘Gosh,’ says DI Currie. ‘I’d say that was quite a lot for anyone!’ She exchanges a look with DI Henry, who shakes his head and smiles.

‘So,’ she continues. ‘You weren’t sober when you got home?’

‘No. I was really quite drunk.’

‘And this was what time?’

‘Roughly eleven thirty. Maybe later.’

‘And what did you do when you got home? Could you talk us through that again please? How did you get home?’

‘I got the Tube to Finchley Road. Then I walked to my house, via Winterham Gardens.’

‘And then?’

‘I saw the person in the hoodie outside the house opposite. I went indoors. I went to bed.’

‘And just going back, if you don’t mind, to your walk from the Tube station that night?

Owen blanches slightly at the hazy memory of a woman, her fearful gaze on him, her finger over the emergency icon on her phone screen.

‘Did you perhaps see anyone when you were walking home?’

He shakes his head.

‘Yes or no, please, Mr Pick.’

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, I didn’t see anyone.’

‘What about this lady?’

DI Currie passes him a photograph. It’s an attractive young woman in what looks like an official company portrait. She has long blond hair and is wearing a red blouse.

He shakes his head, rubs his chin nervously. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t know her.’

‘Well, this lady lives two doors down from you. And she says on the night in question that you physically threatened her at around midnight. That you attempted to block her path. That you called her “a bitch”. She says she felt very, very intimidated by you and nearly called the police.’

Owen inhales deeply. ‘That’s not what happened.’

‘OK, so you do remember this lady.’

‘Well, I do now. I just didn’t recognise her from that photo. But I remember her being there. She was staring at her phone. She didn’t see me coming. And it was her who got in my way. She was rude to me. I was just defending myself. Reacting to her rudeness. For God’s sake.’ He tuts and folds his arms petulantly.

‘OK, so you’re heading home. You have a contretemps with this lady. You see the young girl outside your neighbour’s house at about midnight. Can you describe it for us now? Whatever you can remember about that?’

He sighs. ‘I mean, I don’t even know any more. It was late. It was dark. I was still quite drunk. It could have been anything.’

‘Just try, Owen, please. Thank you.’

‘I saw …’ He pauses, tries his hardest to put himself back there, outside his house, the chill air of his breath around him. ‘A figure. With a hood. Slim. Not tall. Not short. I thought it was a man at first. They were staring ahead, at the top of the footpath, by the gate. They had their hands in their pockets so their elbows were sticking out like this.’ He makes pointy wings of his own elbows. ‘And then, after about a minute – less, half a minute – they turned slightly towards me, and I saw then that it was probably a girl. With kind of …’ He searches for the right word. ‘Puffy hair.’

‘Puffy? You mean like Afro-Caribbean type of hair?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t really know what that means.’

‘OK. So you saw this figure. And then what happened?’

Owen shakes his head gently, searching his memory for the moment that came after the girl’s eyes met his. But there’s nothing there.

He shakes his head properly. ‘Nothing happened. I saw her and then I went straight indoors.’

‘And then?’

‘I got into bed and I fell asleep.’

‘Did anyone see you coming back in?’

‘No, not that I’m aware of.’

‘We’ve asked the neighbours in your building and none of them recall hearing the door close at that time of night.’

He blinks. ‘I don’t see …’ he begins. ‘They were probably all asleep. Why would they hear the door go?’

‘I don’t know, Mr Pick. But it’s a big heavy door. And it does make quite a loud bang when it’s shut.’

He blinks again and shakes his head. ‘Not really,’ he says.

‘Well,’ says DI Currie, ‘I suppose that’s a matter of opinion.’ She glances at the other detective. ‘OK, I think DI Henry has a few questions too. Are you OK? Can I get you some more water? A hot drink? Anything to eat?’

He shakes his head. ‘No, thank you.’

DI Henry opens his notes. He clears his throat and he says, ‘So, your neighbours across the street, the, er, the Fours?’

Owen shakes his head.

‘Cate and Roan Fours.’

‘No, I don’t know who they are.’

‘OK, well, they live in the house across the street where you say you saw a figure on the night of the fourteenth.’

He nods. ‘Right.’ He knows who they’re talking about now. That family. The Lycra dad and the nervous wife and the over-confident daughter and the gangly boy. ‘The ones with the kids?’

‘Yes, the ones with the kids, that is correct. How would you say your relationship with them is?’

‘I don’t have a relationship with them.’

‘Dr Fours says that you once accosted him in the street when he was out for a run; he said you were rather drunk and asking him strange questions.’

Owen repositions himself in his chair. ‘What has this got to do with …?’

‘Well, nothing directly, Mr Pick. But tangentially, we are forming a picture here.’

Owen breathes in sharply as he realises what is happening. He is being led by this pair of bland, blond, cookie-cutter human beings down an opaque, twisting path towards incriminating himself.

‘You know what,’ he says. ‘I think maybe if you’re not going to be asking me anything to do with actual evidence of me having done anything wrong and you’re just going to talk about things I may or may not have said to my neighbours three weeks ago, then maybe I should have a lawyer. Please.’

The blond twins look at each other and then back at him. ‘Of course, Owen. Absolutely. Do you have a number I could call?’

‘Mr Barrington Blair. Barry. I think he works in the West End somewhere. Soho, that sort of area.’

‘Great, we’ll get someone to call him now. In the meantime, maybe we’ll take a short break.’

They shuffle their papers together. DI Henry straightens his jacket, his collar. DI Currie touches the back of her complicated hairstyle, pressing a loose strand into place. Owen wonders if they’re real people, or very sophisticated androids.

‘Someone will bring you something to eat, Owen. Just hold tight.’

And then Owen is alone. He stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankle. He scrapes a piece of encrusted food off the cuff of his jumper. He suddenly thinks that there may be a row of police officers and detectives sitting on the other side of the plate glass watching him so decides to move about as little as he possibly can.

A moment later a young uniformed policeman comes in with a couple of sandwiches and a paper cup of tea.

‘Tuna,’ he says. ‘Or chicken Caesar wrap?’

‘I’m not hungry,’ Owen replies.

‘I’ll leave both,’ he says. And then he gives him the tea and leaves the room.

‘How long?’ Owen calls towards him through the crack in the door.

The boy reappears. ‘No idea,’ he says chirpily. ‘Sorry.’

There’s nothing in this room to look at. Nothing to distract him. He looks at his fingernails, he fiddles with his hair, tries to straighten his stupid asymmetric fringe. He touches the scab on his forehead. He crosses and uncrosses his legs. Time passes in long, hollow moments, stretched out of all shape by the weirdness of the scenario.

He pulls one of the sandwiches towards him. Tuna mayo and cucumber. He hates tuna and he hates cucumber and it’s brown bread, which he’s never actually eaten. He doesn’t even look at the other one; he knows he won’t like it.

He sips the scalding tea gingerly. His heart jumps about again at the thought of the police rifling his bedroom, the pills in his sock drawer. He tries to work out what he’s going to say about the pills when they inevitably find them. How will he explain Bryn? How will he explain his relationship with an insane incel who wants to incite mass rape of women?

Owen taps his fingertips against the tabletop and tries to control his breathing. He can feel a red ball of panic hurtling towards him, threatening to swallow him up. He pictures the police behind the reflecting glass again. He cannot freak out, he cannot. Barry will be here soon. Barry will tell him what to do.

He takes another sip of tea, too quickly, feels it scald the inside of his mouth, winces and says fuck under his breath.

Finally the door opens again and the two detectives return. The woman says, ‘We’ve contacted Mr Blair. He’s on his way. We can carry on talking while we wait – that could get you home quicker? Or you can wait until he’s here. It’s up to you.’

He thinks again of the pills in his underwear drawer.

He says, ‘I think I’ll wait.’

35