Aubaine village council must have had a financial surplus, and they’d blown it on the cop shop. Automatic key cards, bullet-proof glass, an intercom system to talk to the desk staff, this police station had the whole shebang. “Expecting a siege?” Since I’d started to believe this was all a bad dream anyway, why not be flip with the detective? “Everybody’s a comedian,” Sarrazin said. He slipped his magnetic card into the door. I was on my way to be fingerprinted, photographed and interviewed. Oh well. At least I had that hangover to keep me warm. The interview room was the sort of place you might expect from the mind of Kafka. The interview too. It varied on the theme of: “Yes, I do think someone else killed him and planted him in my house afterwards. No, I don’t know who or how or what the motive was.” “Why would that be?” Sarrazin asked me for the fifth time. “I have no idea. I told you I haven’t seen the man for...” I hoped the tape recorder picked up the outrage in my voice.
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