A heat goes down the front of my body and it's as though I'm standing by a fire, the heat of shock, and it spreads all over my chest and head.

'What's your full name?' asks Middleton. 'Patrick James Oxtoby.'

He writes it down, then asks me for my home address, my father's name, my date of birth.

'What's the date?' he says to Davies. 'August.'

'I know the b.l.o.o.d.y month. What's the date?'

'Twenty-ninth, sir. It's Sat.u.r.day the twenty-ninth of August.'

Middleton's so tall his head is near the roof of the car. He makes another note, then says, 'Patrick James Oxtoby. You are being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Ian Gordon Welkin.'

I nod.

'Do you wish to say anything? You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence.'

I nod again.

'We need to take you back to the house. You need to show us where the weapon is. Can you do that?'

We pull up outside as the paramedics are leaving with the stretcher. 'Just wait in the back,' says Davies.

Bridget stands on the street, looks at the ambulance with her hand up over her nose and mouth, watches the stretcher getting put inside the ambulance.

When the ambulance pulls away, Davies opens the door and lets me out.

As we follow Bridget inside the front door, he doesn't wipe his feet on the mat, but I do.

'In here okay?' he says.

'Yes,' says Bridget.

We go with her into the dining room.

I sit at the table under the bay window. They all stay standing.

Sergeant Middleton stands against my chair and his gun-belt touches my shoulder.

'Where is it?' he says. 'The weapon?'

'In the sink.'

Davies leaves, goes upstairs.

'Should I get some water? Some tea?' says Bridget.

Bridget's not crying, but her voice shakes.

'No,' says Middleton. 'We'll be finished in a few minutes.'

My mouth's dried up but, now I've had some time to think, I'm not so nervous as I was before and I think they've got to realise there's been a mistake.

He can't be dead because of anything I've done and they'll soon work it out. I'm pretty sure I only hit him once and it wasn't hard enough to kill. I know that much.

There's been a mistake.

Davies comes back with the adjustable wrench in a plastic bag and he's got my toolkit.

'Why are you taking my toolkit?'

'We need to take the lot.'

f.u.c.k.

'I'll just go up to my room and get my clothes, then,' I say. 'You'll not need clothes,' says Davies.

Bridget moves in, stands close to me.

'Can he take a toothbrush?' she says.

Middleton thinks on it.

'Okay,' he says.

Now Bridget has tears rolling down her face and into her mouth.

'What about a change of clothes?' she says.

She's crying hard now and Middleton looks at her like she's doing something wrong.

'No,' he says. 'He can't take any clothes.'

'She can get your things to you later,' says Davies.

'Her name's Bridget,' I say.

And then I remember. I might've left my ball peen hammer at work. I took it out when Hayes' nephew asked to borrow it. I gave it to Ben. He mightn't have returned it.

Davies gets a pair of cuffs from the hook on his belt and takes hold of my arms. He holds my arms out in front of my body, my palms face up, as though I'm about to be given something nice, puts my hands in the cuffs.

Bridget comes back with a toiletries bag.

'The prisoner's ready to go now,' says Middleton.

'We'll be out of your hair,' says Davies. 'And be sure not to touch anything in the deceased's room.'

'But the mess?' says Bridget.

'Leave it,' says Davies.

What mess?

Bridget leaves the room.

There's no goodbye.

We go out.

It's going to be a fine, bright day and I want to be included, want to stand near the water and look out at the horizon and smell the salty air. I want to swim and go and eat down the pier. I want going back.

'Get in the car,' says Davies.

I get in the back with him.

A small crowd's gathered and there's an angry old woman, her arms folded tight across her chest, her face lopsided and bitter and, the way she looks at me, as though she'd like to spit, it's like a blow from a fist to the neck.

I've a rush of tears clogging my throat and the old woman speaks to a woman with a pram standing close by but, whatever she's said, it's not meant for me to hear.

Part Two.

14.

We go through an entrance at the side of the cop station, then at the end of a long corridor through a door with frosted gla.s.s that says Custody Office.

We go to the counter.

'Just stand here,' says Davies.

The only window is high on the wall, a useless, murky porthole and the walls are covered top to bottom with posters for the missing and the wanted.

'What's happening now?' I say.

'You'll be put in a holding cell.'

'And then?'

'You'll be interviewed. You'll make a statement.'

'And then?'

'You might be charged.'

'Do I get a solicitor?'

'You're ent.i.tled to one.'

'And what about a phone call?'

'We'll get to that.'

The desk sergeant comes through a door holding a black mug with steam coming off.

Davies stands close to me and I'm cautioned and put under arrest, the same as before.

'Patrick James Oxtoby, you are being held in custody on suspicion of murder and anything you say...'

And then it happens again. That same heat all over my chest as though I'm standing in front of a fire. I lean my elbows on the desk, put my head in my cuffed hands, close my eyes.

'You going to be sick?' says Davies.

I shake my head.

The desk sergeant takes a noisy slurp from his mug of tea, says, 'Give me your date of birth, address, and your father's name.'

'I already gave that,' I say.

'Give it again.'

I tell him.

'And your mother's maiden name?'

I've gone into Welkin's bedroom and I've hit him on the head. It was dark out, but getting light. He was on his side, facing away from me. I hit him on the right temple, not very hard. I hit him all right, but there was no blood. But maybe there was blood, and that's why the wrench was put in the sink.

'Your mother's maiden name?'

'Collins.'

Wait a minute. I'm not sure. Maybe Welkin wasn't facing away. If he was facing me, I must've hit him on the left temple. If there was blood, it came after. I don't know how long it all took. I don't know what the order was. I drank some water and then I think I slept.

'We can make that phone call now,' says Davies.

I give him my mum's number but, when I see it written on the page, I can't do it. I can't face it.

'I've changed my mind,' I say.

I give him the name of the cafe, and the desk sergeant looks it up.

'Can I have the cuffs taken off?'