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the far wall. A line of doors was spaced out along it. There were six. We headed for the last one, which was almost in the corner. INTERVIEW ROOM THREE . Harris flipped a slider across to the OCCUPIED position and pushed the door open. Lights set into the ceiling flickered on automatically as Gibson and I followed him inside.
    The room felt small and cramped after the expanse of the main office. The ceiling was lower, and the blinds were shut across the window, blocking out any natural light. Most of the space was taken up by a wooden table. It looked solid and sturdy, as if it were built to withstand some abuse. It had already taken some, judging by the dents and blemishes in its surface. There were three chairs around it. Harris took the one at the far side. Gibson guided me to the next one, which was on its own at the long side of the table.
    “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
    The remaining chair was to my left, so there was nothing to block my view of a mirror built into the opposite wall. It was rectangular, four feet high, six feet wide. I smiled into it politely in case anyone was on the other side, already watching.
    I’d expected Gibson to sit down as well, but when I turned back to him I saw he’d moved across to the door.
    “Back in a minute,” he said, and left the room.
    I looked at Harris. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me at all. He was just leaning back in his chair, vaguely smiling, and staring into space. There was a tape strip alarm running along the wall, a few inches from his shoulder. I found myself wondering how quickly he could reach it. Then I saw him glance up to the corner of the room above the door. I turned to look, and saw a tiny CCTV camera mounted on a metal bracket where the walls met the ceiling. A red light next to the lens was blinking steadily.
    Maybe that’s why he was looking so smug.
     
    _______
     
    Gibson returned to the interview room carrying a notebook, some papers, and three white polystyrene cups with lids.
    “No doughnuts,” he said as he sat down. “Sorry.”
    “Just don’t tell me you put milk in my coffee,” I said.
    “No. For you, I guessed no milk, no sugar.”
    “That’s a relief.”
    The detectives were silent as I took a sip of coffee. It was surprisingly good. A little cold, maybe, but I allowed myself a moment to enjoy the strong, bitter taste. Gibson left his cup on the table and watched me. Harris emptied his with a single gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
    “Now, before we start, I need to tell you something,” Gibson said. He spoke really slowly, as if he thought I might not understand. “It’s important you should know, you can have an attorney present if you want one. But before you make a decision on that, I think you should hear what we’ve got, and let me tell you what you can do to help yourself. Then, you can decide which way to go when you know all the facts. What do you say?”
    “Fine with me,” I said. “I’m not looking to drag this out.”
    “OK then, let’s not waste any more time. I just need you to sign something to say you’ve passed on the attorney for now, and we’re in business.”
    Gibson took a ballpoint pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Then he shuffled through the papers he’d brought back with him, selected a single sheet, and slid it across. I scanned my way down the page until I came to a box at the bottom. Someone had highlighted the outline in yellow. It was too small for my signature, so I just scrawled right across the bottom of the page. Gibson reached over and gathered up the pen and paper. He looked at the form for a moment and frowned.
    “Nope,” he said. “Can’t read that. And the guys downstairs told me you don’t have ID, so maybe you can start by telling us your name?”
    “David Trevellyan,” I said.
    “And where are you from, David?”
    “England. Originally.”
    “Thought I recognized the accent. So what are you doing in New