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“Anything else?”

I shook my head. He would have to decide what was “usual” for me. Passmore called-out from the backdoor.

“Steve, there’s no coffee. Do you want tea?”

“Yes.”

“Could you make me one as well?” I said.

Passmore looked at me as if I belonged on next-door’s lawn then went back inside. Skinner continued with his questions.

“You’ve lived here five years haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

He was pursuing the classic Poirot method: Once you have disregarded all that is of no relevance, all that is left is the relevant. Like most people, Skinner had forgotten that Poirot wasn’t actually real and that he was the creation of a nutty old lady.

“And you work in town?”

“Yes, do you know where?”

“Within the university.”

Bother. Perhaps there was more to this Poirot-lark than I realised. Skinner, or one of his colleagues, had done some research and he already knew more about me than some of my previous long-term girlfriends. This pleased him and pissed me off. Passmore reappeared carrying three mugs. I went to take the yellow.

“No, no,” he said, “yours is the blue.”

He looked mean. I was suspicious.

“Can we take a look at the bedroom?” Skinner said as he took the yellow mug.

Passmore looked up towards the window and got an eyeful of white light.