Twelve
“He’s always been a bit of a villain.” — Francesca BoyleDetective Inspector Bailey Troy sat in the small interview room, considering the two men sitting opposite her. To her left, Detective Constable Goff sat impassively, arms crossed, a Manila folder sitting unopened on the table in front of him.
Diagonally across the table from Bailey sat Owen Walker. He was a man in his late thirties or early forties, dressed in a half-hearted, dishevelled and unironed attempt at business-casual attire — a plain white shirt open at the neck and straining against a paunch at the waist, plain charcoal grey slacks that were long overdue a visit to the dry-cleaner. He sat slumped and cross-legged in his chair, lightly drumming a pencil on an A4 pad on his lap and waiting patiently for the interview
