Mr Jones was a big man in his late forties. Well-leathered and tough. His face was tight, with a complexion indicative of a well-stocked cellar and an incipient heart condition.
Answering the door at 5.15 a.m. on a dark, rainy morning, he wasn't at his best.
"Who are you? What do you want? Why are you hammering on my door?
With not a hint of an accent. He clutched a dressing-gown more tightly his shivering bulk.
"I'm sorry, Mr Jones. I must talk to you. It's most urgent!"
"Nothing so urgent that you need to wake me at this ungodly hour," he said. "Who are you?"
"I'm your worst nightmare if you don't tell me what you are doing with a film of the drowned trawlermen taken from a Russian nuclear submarine."
He swung the door in my face.
The dole of my right foot caught the door before it engaged the latch. I booted it open. It must have caught his elbow. As when I passed inside, he clutched his arm, using language that make a Smithfield Market porter blush.
It was ten seconds before he knew I was standing there.
"Get out! Out of my house at once you…" He got started on my forebears, but I cut him short.
"People are dead, Jones. Two Russians on one of your rented boathouses. The crew from the trawler. Dr Neil Morris and Inga Luzhny from DEFRA and now Dr Fawx. Your inconvenience doesn't concern me one iota. I want answers to questions. I want them now."
"And who the fuck are you?" The heavy lips were curled into an expression that was half-sneer, half-grimace of pain. "You have no authority to ask me a thing. You're not the police. Where are your credentials? Show me."
He didn't mask the sneer on his face. Or the hatred in his tone.
I couldn't present him with any ID.
I aimed the handgun at him instead.
Bluster is a facade that doesn't hide. It wasn't adequate.
"My God!" He laughed, not a laugh with a silvery tinkle of bells. An unpleasant laugh. "Guns! Whatever is later? I've made your number, whoever you are. A little ring to Sergeant Fitzgerald will soon fix you." The phone was on the table beside me.
He moved towards it.
I moved towards him.
The muzzle of the silencer got him under the breast-bone. I stayed aside as he jack-knifed and fell to the ground.
He rolled around, clenching his abdomen with both palms. Whooping in agony as he tried to drag air into his lungs.
After a minute, he quietened. Toiled to his feet, still grasping his stomach, unable to obtain enough oxygen. His face drab and puffy. His bloodshot eyes maintained pure malice.
"This is the end for you, my friend." His tone came in hoarse gasps punctuated by half-sobbing inhalations. "I will make…"
He broke off, flinching. As the barrel of my handgun arched towards his face. He flung both palms up in instinctive self-defence. I hit him hard in the stomach. This time, he stayed on the ground longer. He dragged himself, trembling to his feet, he appeared in terrible shape.
His eyes still burned with distaste. There was something else.
Fear.
I took two swift steps towards him. Jones took two corresponding steps back. Then collapsed on a settee as it took him behind the knees. His face-maintained rage, bewilderment, and fear.
Jones wasn't willing to communicate. Trying to stay the same. We both realised it.
"Where were you on the night Neil Morris and Inga Luzhny were killed?" I asked. I remained on my feet, gun ready.
"Fitzgerald has my statement," he replied. "At home, I'd had friends in for poker, until midnight."
"Friends?"
"A retired bank manager and his partner, along with my wife."
"Where is your excellent lady?"
"Visiting her sick parent in Barham, near Ipswich. She has dementia."
I suggested nothing but glanced at my feet. I settled on grey wall-to-wall carpeting. If I dropped a cuff-link, I'd have to call a tracker dog to find it.
"Fancy line in floor coverings, Mr Jones." I commented with no particular articulation.
"Are you clever or insolent?"
"Large silk curtains," I continued. "Period furniture. Genuine crystal chandelier. A big house, and I'd wager you furnished the entire residence on the same scale. Where is the capital coming from, Mr Jones? Estate agents have struggled since the pandemic. Or did you win the lottery?"
He was going to order me to stop. I half-lifted the handgun again. Not extreme. Enough to change his mind.
"My wife and I have no children. We can afford to indulge our tastes?"
"Lucky you. Where you last night between nine and eleven p.m.?"
He frowned and announced, "At home."
"Are you positive?"
"Of course, I'm positive." He'd decided stiff indignation was his safest course.
"Witnesses?"
"I was alone? As I said, my wife is staying with her mother."
"You were alone all night?"
"Yes."
"That may be unfortunate for you. No witnesses for last night."
"Why?" He appeared puzzled.
"You'll realise soon enough. Do you own a car, Mr Jones?"
"Two cars."
"What sort?"
"I own an Aston Martin and my wife a BMW."
"An Aston Martin?" I gave him a long stare, but I wasted it. He stared at the carpeting.
"Both vehicles are second-hand."
"When did you buy the Aston Martin?"
He glanced at me. "What does that matter? What are you saying?"
"When did you buy it?"
"Ten weeks ago." He was staring at the carpeting further. "Maybe three months ago."
"A second-hand vehicle, you say. How old?"
"Four years."
"Four years. They don't give away Aston Martin for peanuts. Where did you pick up that cash three months ago?"
"I didn't. I paid a deposit. The rest is over three years. It's the way most individuals buy their cars, you know?"
"May I see the agreement?"
He brought it.
A hurried glance showed he was telling the truth.
"How much money do you make from your business?"
"That's personal."
"And your wife's wage?"
"That's confidential too."
"You are putting yourself under a great deal of financial pressure in the current economic climate."
"I have two insurance policies maturing later next year. I'll get them for you."
"Don't bother. Inform me, Mr Jones, why are you so worried, so nervous?"
"I'm not bothered."
I held up the gun and pointed it straight at the middle of his forehead.
"Don't lie!"
My index finger twitched on the trigger.