Chapter Sixteen
“Yew get one phone call.”
Thelonious perched on an uncomfortable plastic chair located somewhere within the bowels of the headquarters for Norfolk CID, his short legs dangling into space. Although he’d already been given the whole caution routine, DCI Sidebottom continued to stare expectantly at him, no doubt anticipating a full confession, after which everyone could have a cup of tea and go home—well, at least everyone but the poor blighter who’d been arrested. The inspector seemed to sense that Thelonious had no one to call, no one to come to his rescue. Maybe that was why he’d been such an easy target for an incompetent policeman in search of a scapegoat.
The fact that Thelonious didn’t possess the physical capability to hoist the dead body of a fully grown adult male
