The policewoman entered the room. She carried a small briefcase and laid it on the table.
"Here to take fingerprints," she said.
"Okay," I said, knowing no records of my impressions are on any database. In fact, there was no record anywhere. No phone number, landline or mobile, or a home address. Don't pay tax or national insurance. No bank account. Every job I'm given paid upfront and in cash. No living relatives or next of kin.
I am no one.
She clicked open the briefcase and handed over a long black product holder. In it were white plastic numbers.
She handed it to me. I took it in my cuffed hands. It was the correct way. Held under my chin.
She removed a camera from the case. Rested her elbows on the table as a brace. Clicked and shot.
Before asking, I shifted sideways on the chair for the profile. Kept the figure at my shoulder and stared at the wall. Once finished, I twisted back and held out the number.
She accepted it with a pursed grin.
Next came the fingerprint gear. A crisp ten-card, labelled. The thumb spaces were small. This one had a reverse side for palm prints. The handcuffs made the procedure difficult. No offer to have them removed.
She inked my hands. Her fingers were smooth. No wedding ring. Afterwards, handed over a wad of tissues. The ink came off with ease.
After she removed the memory card from the camera, she put it on the table. Repacked the apparatus, picked up her stuff, and rapped on the door.
After she left the room. The lock clicked.
Constable Smee stepped in and offered a drink. I settled for tea.
A few moments later, Fitzgerald entered.
"Well, what a mess," he said, and handed over a cup and saucer.
"Only if you accept what Mia Malkova is informing you."
He didn't respond.
"Do you believe what she is saying?"
He pulled the chair out from under the table. The legs made a dull scratching sound on the floor.
"One of you is lying."
He sat and retrieved a notebook and pencil. I tried to get a sense of what he wrote while interviewing Mia Malkova.
He took a deep breath.
"I didn't do it," I admitted.
"Sip your drink while it's hot," he said.
I picked up the cup and noticed in the saucer a damp Post-it note.
It proclaimed:
I know you are innocent.
I sipped the tea. It was hot.
"There is no ID in the wallet."
"No."
"No mobile in the possessions."
"I don't own one."
"That's odd."
"What is?"
"That you haven't got a phone," Fitzgerald said. "This means you're not making any calls or sending any texts."
"So?"
"No contract. Paperwork with a name. Can't track your movements or prove what you're saying is true."
"You'll just have to take my word for it, Sergeant."
"There are no records of you anywhere."
I took a protracted pause.
"No."
"Haven't got an NI number."
"No."
"Makes little sense."
"Why not?"
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere."
"You must live somewhere."
"I don't stay anywhere, lengthy enough." I said. "People I work for keep me moving."
Fitzgerald looked at me, reviewing his options.
"Place of birth?"
"Hertfordshire."
"Education?"
"East Barnet, and then North Finchley."
He gave me a blank look, but I realised what he was thinking. He was on my side.
"After leaving school?"
"Joined the Army."
The Sergeant raised an eyebrow.
"What part?"
"Military Intelligence."
He remained silent.
"What is this, Sergeant?" I said with impatience.
"Did you break into Mr and Mrs Jones' home?"
"Yes."
"Was there anyone else there?"
"No."
"Why burgle the Jones's house?"
"Looking for data."
"What sort?"
He looked at the camera. A sign to choose my words with care.
"On rental properties."
"What is the interest in these ownerships?"
"Mr Jones was extorting money from the tenants."
"Be more specific?"
"No."
Fitzgerald tapped the pencil against the pad.
"Find any incriminating evidence?"
"No."
"On the wife?"
"A box hidden under the floorboards."
"Containing what?"
"A dozen passports of various nationalities, and a PSS handgun."
"What gun is that?"
"Used by Special Operations Forces and designed for attack and self-defence at short ranges when noiseless and flameless fire is vital. The 7.62x42mm SP-4 round, which conceals exhaust gases in the casings."
"You know of them?"
"I've come across them once or twice."
"Where? Can I ask?"
"No, you may not."
I winked at the Sergeant, who stifled a grin with great effort.
"Back to the questions. What time was it when you entered the Mr and Mrs Jones's house?"
"A bit after you dropped me."
Fitzgerald choked on his coffee.
"Please, continue." He said, after he composed himself.
"I rang the doorbell. No one was home. I gained access by using my lock-picks."
"And you saw no evidence of Mr Jones' shot."
"No."
"Witness has reported a man seen running out of her garden. Description given matches you. White, lanky, blonde hair."
Silence followed.
"Okay," I said. "I'll give you a statement describing every little detail I did after you left your car. But I tell you one thing: I didn't kill anyone."
Fitzgerald sat and gazed at me.
"You ran away from the house."
"Someone was shooting at me."
"Who?"
"Mrs Jones."
He laughed, but his laughter was without humour.
"She doesn't appear to understand how to use a gun."
"She is Mia Malkova. A Russian assassin. I don't even remember if that is her real identity. Each passport I saw had a different surname. But it was the same woman I'm telling you, Sergeant."
He nodded and made a note.
"How did her husband die?"
"Shot in the head."
"Ballistics?"
"Not come back yet."
Fitzgerald leaned forward. He slid a piece of paper towards me. Under his palm so the CCTV camera couldn't see it. It was a torn-off section of computer stationery. Not old. On it was a hand-written message in capitals:
HIT ME