Free Little Triggers by Martyn Waites

for him to betray something. Anything. Larkin, knowing an interrogation technique when he saw one, stared right back.
    Eventually Umpleby sniffed and looked round the room. “Nice place you’ve got here. Scandal and sensationalism must pay well.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” Larkin quickly replied. “Not my style.”
    “No,” said Grice, “we know what your style is. We know all about you.”
    “My reputation precedes me, then.” Larkin held Grice’s look, allowed himself a small grin. He didn’t know these two or what their game was, but he wouldn’t rise to the occasion. “But never mind – it’s always a pleasure to be visited by the boys in blue. Tea, gentlemen?”
    Umpleby and Grice were clearly taken aback, but managed to nod. Larkin excused himself politely and went into the kitchen.
One nil to the home team
, he thought.
    Considering he was one man living alone, and all he’d done the night before was tip out an Indian takeaway onto a plate and open a four-pack of lager, the kitchen looked like a Russian nuclear reactor gone into meltdown. Globs of bright orange goo coated the sink and other surfaces; unnaturally radiant flakes of uneaten pilau rice and crimson stripes of keema nan added additional decoration. The air smelled of sour hops. He ignored it, boiled the kettle, filled the tea pot, put three mugs, milk and sugar on a tray, and returned to the front room.
    “Out of biscuits, I’m afraid,” he said as he entered. The policemen didn’t seem to know whether to take him seriously or not. Good, thought Larkin: that’s what I wanted. He sat down.
    Grice spoke first. “I presume you know why we’re here, Mr Larkin?”
    “A new community policing initiative?”
    Umpleby’s expression grew murderous, but his voice remained calm. “Ian Houchen, a colleague of yours, is dead. We’ve informed Mrs Houchen of her ex-husband’s demise – always a painful task. She couldn’t be of any help. We understand you were at the scene of the incident. Is there anything you can tell us?”
    “I suggest you read my
Journal
article. Milk and sugar?”
    They grunted affirmatively; Larkin handed them their mugs.
    Umpleby took up the conversational duties while Grice gave his tea a suspicious stare, as if it had been poisoned. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen your article yet,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to …?”
    “OK,” said Larkin. “I got a call from Houchen. He asked me to go over to his place. I went. When I got there it was on fire. The fire brigade reckoned he was dead. That’s it.”
    Umpleby nodded. “And this call you received. How did he sound?”
    “Well — ” Larkin began.
    “Did he seem distressed? Anxious? Was it a social call or was it work?”
    “I …” Larkin hesitated.
He sounded terrified. In fear for his life.
He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. These two hadn’t done anything to earn his trust. Their confrontational, accusatory attitude had forfeited them their right to be told anything. “He just – called. Asked what I was doing. Asked me to come over. That was it.”
    “And you spoke to him personally?”
    Larkin swallowed, eyes downcast. “Yes.”
    Grice leaned forward. “And he seemed all right, did he?”
    “Fine. Had a bottle. Malt. Wondered if I fancied sharing it.” Larkin kept his eyes down.
    “And this was something you often did? A matey get-together?” Umpleby again: suspicion in his voice.
    “Sometimes,” said Larkin. He felt his mouth go dry; he cleared his throat.
    “And he wasn’t … worried about anything? Nervous, like?” As Grice spoke, Umpleby turned to him: a coded message flashed from his eyes. Grice immediately fell silent. Larkin pretended not to notice, but it had the effect of a mild electric jolt. Suddenly, for some reason he didn’t yet understand, lying felt like the right thing to do with these two.
    “As I said, he seemed fine. Why? D’you think he killed himself, or something?”
    “It’s early days