“Am I a suspect again?” He walked into the office. A nasty combination of motive, opportunity, and the apparent lack of an alibi had put him in my sights a couple of years ago, but only briefly. “No, no—not at all. But I have to ask…what brought you out to the middle of the moors on a cold winter day?” “It was personal.” “Bad answer, Mike. Most serious crimes turn out to be personal, one way or the other.” “So, I am a suspect.” “Not unless you turn yourself into one.” We studied each other across the desk. Finally he said, “I really don’t want to talk about this.” “Think of me as your Father Confessor.” “So everything I tell you is secret? Nothing leaves this room?” “Unless you do actually incriminate yourself.”