He sat behind a standard public-service desk, top of glass, bare except for his mobile. ‘What’s this in aid of?’ he said. He didn’t much resemble the jovial man talking to Paul Keogh at the AirLine launch, Villani said, ‘We’re from the Homicide Squad, Mr Koenig.’ ‘That’s clever? I know where you’re from.’ They were in an interview room, well away from the parliament, a room with a view of a grey rendered wall. ‘It’s about Thursday the eleventh, fortnight ago. The night of. Were you at home then?’ ‘Why?’ ‘We’d appreciate your cooperation.’ ‘I don’t give a fuck what you’d appreciate. What’s the point of the question?’ ‘A murder investigation. Your name has come up.’ ‘Bullshit.’ ‘Distant connection,’ said Villani. ‘But we need your help.’ Koenig looked at Villani for a good while. Villani looked back. Koenig picked up his mobile and used his thumb, put it to his head. ‘Diary for eleventh of February. Evening. Where was I?’ He waited, he looked from Villani to Dove and back, looked hard, he was a man used to intimidating people.
