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and furniture and other fixed assets were not the only saleable commodities to be found within the walls of Griffin Holdings Ltd.
    Any idiot will tell you, Andrew Griffin thought to himself as he began to chew on a fingernail, that information is power.

 
8
 
 
    Monday . 10am.
     
     
    Campbell was sitting in an episode of The Bill.
    The office was tucked in the corner of a larger open-plan expanse of desks and paper, a meeting of varnished wood and grey-painted steel but the paint had long since become chipped and the pine-effect of the wood was all veneer hiding cheap woodchip beneath. It was fooling nobody. Amid these drab surroundings Campbell could understand why coppers were such miserable bastards.
    Sitting on a plastic chair with no armrests and exhausted cushioning Campbell felt tense and uncomfortable. He had not slept well the previous night. The answerphone message kept replaying itself in his head over and over again. Images of the man lying face down on the floor of his kitchen, the thick dark pool of blood, all flashing through his mind.
    ‘How are you today?’
    Campbell looked up and tried to raise the corners of his mouth into a smile but it ended up looking nothing like a smile at all but an expression that said more than he could about how he was today. He shrugged instead of answering as the non-smile dropped from his face.
    The policeman on the other side of the desk shot him a sympathetic look and tried to look efficient, to give the impression that this wouldn’t take too long.
    ‘Right well I’ll take down a few details first of all. I’m Constable Scott by the way. Call me Dave.’
    ‘ Sure.’
    ‘Drink of something first? Tea, coffee?’ he offered.
    Campbell was grateful for the Constable’s patience and soft approach. He felt as if he would bruise easily today. He thought that he could do with two or three coffees but then he noticed the plastic cup on the desk in front of him and looking around him, noted a lack of any ceramics. No mugs. Another coffee machine.
    ‘Do you have water?’ he said.
    ‘No problem.’ Constable Scott said and vanished from the desk, shutting the door behind him.
    Campbell was here to give his statement about the events of Saturday night, or those at least that he could remember. The fact that he had thought of little else since it had happened was not enough to have jogged anything loose so far. He could remember working his way around the living room, playing the host, the reluctant raconteur. Laughing, talking, joking. Drinking. Making eye contact with the blonde girl whose name he could not recall.
    And then that sound. It had made his scalp tingle and hairs rise on his neck as he stood there in that room. Afterward though, knowing what had made the sound – what had muffled and smothered the breaking glass – made it all the worse and he could still hear it as sharp and clear as he had two nights before.
    But as well as he could recall that sound, the other memories were vague and fuzzy like a bad recording, the focus and clarity fading out in certain patches, going blank in others. Then coming back into sharp focus.
    Campbell could see the brunette woman, could see the man on the floor and blood spreading dark and sticky around his head. He could see the navy blue of the man’s hooded top, the dark brown hair matted and slick with blood. And then it went blank again for a minute and then again that image of the head struggling to lift from the floor, the brunette woman going out of the room again, people leaving quietly.
    The door ker-thunked open behind him and Campbell jumped a little. A white plastic cup landed in front of him but he didn’t look up, trying to regain his composure before the policeman looked him in the eye again.
    He swallowed. ‘Thanks.’ he said, pleased when his voice came strong and clear.
    The constable smiled and sipped from his own cup.
    ‘Sooner we start, sooner we finish.’ Constable Scott said picking up a pen and