Ten.

Scott had managed to get a reprieve from the case.

Sitting watching his sergeant's drooping eyes, Barnaby had chuckled and sent him home early, dispersing the tedium of interviewing suspects amongst the rest of the department, who were only too eager to help.

So why the weary DS had found himself sitting outside the theatre he had no idea. He should have been in bed by rights, he had earned it after all. But he had promised Mary Saddler he would ask her ex-boyfriend about the attack and he was going to…briefly anyway. Then bed.

The place was deserted. His car one of only two or three occupying the shoddily painted lines to the front of the tall brick building. Closed signs hung across the doors and someone had pinned a notice over the big board that had proudly displayed the title of the play only a few or two ago. Was it just one day ago? Scott rubbed his eyes wearily, it felt like a lifetime ago.

Slowly he clambered out of the car, pulling the folds of his jacket close against the bitter wind. At least in London there had always been a building to shelter behind when the weather kicked in. He sighed.

Despite looking empty, Scott knew that there were people shuffling about in the theatre, the door to a cleaning cupboard hanging open, and various brooms and mops pulled out and leant against the wall for use.

He banged loudly on the glass pulling his badge out with his free hand as a surprised looking man appeared from the auditorium.

"Police!" Scott yelled through the double doors, watching as the man came forward to let him in.

"Yeah?" It was a short, sharp question that hit him as soon as he stepped in onto the bristled entrance mat. "What do you want?"

He didn't much care for the tone, and although he was too tired to care completely, he couldn't help the tone of annoyance that laced his own reply,

"Mitch Cannaby."

"Why?"

"Are you Mr. Cannaby?"

"No."

"Then that would be none of your business," he snapped testily. The cleaner eyed him warily having caught a hint of the sergeant's temper. Scott took a deep calming breath and tried again,

"Is Mr. Cannaby here?"

"Yes," the man conceded grudgingly, "He's here. He's round the back. You want me to show you?"

Scott was led through the empty auditorium into the backstage area he had been interviewing in on the night of the murder – which felt like years ago. The cleaner, not too eager to stay in his company, took him through into the costume department, a small, musty-smelling room cramped with rail upon rail of battered and faded costumes. Frumpy Victorian crinoline, long flowing medieval dresses, oriental robes and shiny Arabian belly-dancing numbers that certainly hadn't been in the programme when he'd looked.

In the corner, a guy with stubbly short grey hair was stacking boxes of shoes, moving into the dusty hidden areas with a broom.

"Mitch!" the cleaner shouted louder than was necessary, he jerked a thumb towards Scott, "Police," then he was gone again.

Mitch Cannaby stopped his sweeping to regard Scott with interest, leaning casually against the broom handle and staring at him with sharp eyes.

"Police eh? Here about the murder?"

Picking his way across discarded items, Scott narrowed the distance between them,

"Not at the moment no. I'm here to ask you about Mary Saddler." He stopped to watch for a reaction.

"Oh," he groaned in reply, his tone disinterested, "What about her?"

"She was attacked."

This caught the man's attention and he looked up,

"Attacked? Who by?"

Scott quirked a brow at him,

"I was hoping you could tell me."

The sentence took a while to sink in, Mitch simply blinking at him as the words hit home. Hurriedly, he held up his hands,

"Now look here, you can't go around blaming me for everything that happens to that woman…"

Scott calm composure never left him,

"And why would I do that?"

"Because I'm the ex aren't I?" the man was getting flustered now, "It was never going to look good for me!"

"Do you have an alibi for last night?"

"An alibi?"

"Yes," despite his state of exhaustion, Scott still had the energy for flippancy, "We tend to find them quite helpful in events like these."

The man narrowed his eyes at him,

"I was here."

"All night?"

"All night."

A smile tugged at the edge of Scott's lips as the man bit back at him, and he took a deep breath, irritatingly calm against the emotions of Cannaby.

"Can anyone back you up on that?"

"Well…anyone who was here. I was backstage all night."

"You didn't leave for any reason?"

"No."

"Can anyone verify that you were indeed backstage all evening?"

The defiance flared,

"No."

Sensing that the man was either about to shout or use his broom in a most unpleasant manner, Scott decided that enough was enough for one evening. He'd done as he'd promised and been to see Cannaby, and come to the conclusion that he didn't care for him. Evidence, if indeed it was Cannaby, could come later. Preferably after sleep.

"You don't know what she's like do you?" Mitch asked with a sneer,

"I wouldn't like to offer a guess, no," here Scott smirked at him patronizingly, "But thank you Mr. Cannaby," he turned to leave, images of feathery pillows drifting around his brain, "I'm sure we'll be in touch."