Paul Rose peered with little interest out of the bay-window from the chintzy armchair he sat in, looking out at the rain. It had begun to fall at a heavier, steadier pace since he'd driven the job car to a little suburb just outside of London accompanied by the Detective Constable that had been assigned to him.

DC Jonathon Jefferies, or 'Joffa' as most of the CID knew him as, was a tall and gangly young man who had recently passed his CID exam. This was his first major enquiry as a CID officer as the DI had thought it would be good practice for him to observe one of the older and more tenacious officers, pairing him up with Rose who had grumbled vocally to the other officers and to Joffa, though not to DI Mason himself, about not being paid enough to babysit. As it was, Joffa seemed a nice enough lad, with his easy Northern twang and irrepressible babbling about the latest football league tables as they'd driven through the damp streets of London to interview Mr Harold Shakeshaft, the driver of the Saab that had been assaulted by their unknown murder suspect.

Joffa was helping himself to his second lemon and poppy seed muffin as Mr Shakeshaft entered the room bearing a tray laden with a silver tea service and four delicate-looking china cups, complete with flouncy saucers, closely followed by a bird-like woman, petite and blonde, in a pale pink apron emblazoned with the slogan 'Keep Calm and Eat a Cupcake' beneath a white printed crown. The woman set a dense fruitcake on the coffee table that lay in the middle of the living room like a raft cast adrift on the swirled blue carpet. The room was bright enough with the large bay-window and light coloured paint, but cluttered with various knick-knacks and ornaments on almost every surface so that it gave the impression of a stuffy second hand shop, like the ones that Rose's ex-wife used to drag him into many moons ago in Portobello Road when they had first been married.

'I just couldn't believe it, Sergeant, when my Harry told me what had happened. I told him at the time; I said 'You need to report that, you can't let that man get away with assaulting you like that,' but he never listens,' Mrs Shakeshaft was saying, twitching at her apron and fluttering her hands over the table to straighten the cake stand and plate of muffins that Joffa had been munching his way through. 'Tea, Constable?'

'Yeah, please. Milk and three, thanks.'

'And to think! Him, assaulted by a murderer! I hate to think what could have happened; my heart goes all a-flutter when I think of it.' She carefully poured the tea into one of the little china cups, plopped in three little white sugar lumps from the silver dish on the table and handed it to Joffa, who brushed the muffin crumbs off his fingers and on to his trousers before accepting it.

'Tea, Sergeant? Cut the fruit cake, Harry, I think the officers might like a nice slice of that, won't you boys?' she beamed at the two men; DS Rose settled deep in the flowered armchair by the window and the much taller floppy haired DC trying to fold himself up at the end of the sofa to make his long legs fit comfortably beneath the low coffee table in front of him. Joffa grinned.

'Yeah, thanks.'

DS Rose cleared his throat and leant forwards to take the tea offered by Mrs Shakeshaft.

'No cake for me please, Mrs Shakeshaft,' he said gruffly, with a look at the DC, who was eagerly devouring the thick slice of fruit cake that Mr Shakeshaft had handed him on a little china plate, as though he hadn't already eaten two of the muffins they had been plied with since their arrival ten minutes before. 'We're actually rather short on time and need to get a statement from your husband with regards to this assault.'

'Do stop fussing, Helen,' said Mr Shakeshaft, settling himself down on the other end of the sofa, facing towards the two detectives. His greying hair was receding both from the back and the front, leaving a gleaming forehead and pate in its wake. His soft face was fleshy and heavily lined, compared to the thin, pointed features of his wife's and he looked much older than the 48 years that he claimed. That's what having a wife does to you, thought Rose with a smug inward smile, makes you old before your time. He had seen younger looking 58 year olds who'd served a hard life out in the force.

'Yes, of course, sorry. It's not every day we have the police come to our house though,' she said, patting her faded blonde hair that had been coifed neatly into a French braid, almost breathless with excitement as her hands fluttered down to tweak the tray and the plates on the table again.

'Go and wash up, love, then have a sit down with that new cook book you bought the other day. It'll be quieter in the kitchen for you.' Mr Shakeshaft smiled with a little exasperation at his wife.

'If you're sure you don't need me,'

'I'm quite capable of pouring tea, look,' said Mr Shakeshaft, helping himself to the teapot.

'Right, well. It was lovely to meet you gentlemen,' she bobbed a little at the two officers as though unsure whether she should curtsey. Helen Shakeshaft had never met real policemen before, not to speak to anyway. And these men were obviously well-to-do, since they weren't wearing a uniform. She skittered off to the kitchen; leaving Rose feeling like she was the kind of woman door-to-door salesmen might rub their hands in delight for, before faking a nosebleed just to escape her chattering. The men smiled politely as she disappeared through the doorway.

'Sorry, we don't get company often. Helen has recently joined a baking group and she relishes the chance to ply her cakes on anyone who enters the house,' he chuckled, good-naturedly, deepening the wrinkles around his eyes.

'It's all very nice,' Joffa said as he washed down the fruit cake that he'd polished off with a big slug of tea.

'I'll be sure to tell her. Now, what is it I can do for you, officers? You want a statement from me about what happened at the petrol station?'

'Yes, Sir, that's right,' Rose said, easing himself forward to place his teacup down on the table with a little chink.

'Harold, please.'

'Right, Harold. I'll ask you some questions about what happened that night and DC Jefferies will write out the statement as we go, then at the end you'll get a chance to read what he's written, change anything and sign it. Is that ok?'

'Oh yes, that's fine, super. Though I'm afraid I don't remember a great deal of detail, the whole thing just happened in such a blur and was so unexpected. I was just minding my own business and had stopped to fill up my car, and…'

'DC Jefferies,' Rose cut across Harold, sharply, 'get the statement form out of your case please.' Joffa, who's hand had been hovering between the plate of lemon muffins and the fruitcake, unsure which to have next, paused in its mission towards the little muffins.

'Yes, Sarge,' he said with an easy grin as he bent down to the slim black briefcase he'd lent against the sofa and slipped a couple of sheets of A4 paper out along with a clipboard which he rested on his lap, pen poised and ready.

'Ok, sorry, Harold, can we go back a bit there, we just need to get a few rudimentary details from you.'

'Sure, sure…' Joffa's pen flew in neat, elegant script across the page as he wrote down Mr Shakeshaft's answers to his Sergeants careful questioning and a statement began to form.

'So, Harold, could you describe your attacker for me please?' Rose finally asked, eyeing the cursive writing that Joffa had barely glanced up from with admiration. Most DCs that Rose knew had terrible handwriting.

'Well,' Harold sat back, leaning against the arm of the sofa as he thought. 'He was very tall. I'm about 5'11 and this man was at least 6 foot something. His hair was quite dark as were his eyes and he was quite broad, muscly. He had a slight accent but I couldn't place it and he was white, you know skin wise. I'd say he was about 25 to 30 years old, but then you can never tell with people can you?' he smiled, ruefully, perhaps thinking of the creases on his own face that added at least ten years.

'Uh-huh. What was he wearing?'

'Oh… dear, I really wouldn't like to say, I can't be clear on that part. Jeans I think and a jumper. Sorry I can't be any more descriptive. It was all such a shock you know, and happened so fast.'

'That's fine, thank you Harold, you're doing great so far. And what was it he said to you, if anything? We have the CCTV footage from the garage but unfortunately it doesn't have any sound.'

'He didn't actually speak to me, he spoke to the young girl he was with.' He shook his head sadly as he thought back to that night. 'Poor young thing, she was. Battered and bruised, no doubt by him.'

'The girl was injured?' Rose couldn't keep the note of surprise out of his voice, which caused Joffa to look up from the statement.

'Yes, her lip was cut I seem to remember, the bottom one was all swollen here,' Harold pointed to one corner of his mouth before rubbing a fingertip over the pouchy flesh where his cheekbone should have been. 'And she had a bruise here.' The two detectives caught each other's eye and Joffa dipped immediately into the briefcase again, pulling out the handful of CCTV stills from the garage. Rose frowned as he wondered how the bruises hadn't been picked up earlier, annoyed at himself for not having noted it before. He leant forward a little more, trying to escape the brutally soft cushions of the armchair so that he could look over the photographs again as Joffa splayed them out on the coffee table, one by one.

'Yes, this is them, that's definitely the man that attacked me, Sergeant,' Harold said with a little excitement, pointing a shaking forefinger at the photograph that showed him laid flat out on his back over the bonnet of his car as the tall man held him down by the throat and the slight girl beside him seemed to be trying to pull him away. Rose pulled one of the pictures towards him, the one that gave a clearer shot of the girl's face as he realised with some annoyance that she did appear to have a few scrapes and bruises. Were they caused by the giant of a man beside her? If so, why didn't she make the most of him being distracted and make a run for it? Or were they caused by a struggle with the murdered men? His frown deepened as his thoughts snuffled off by themselves, like an old bloodhound on a scent trail. He shot a dark look at Joffa, who had taken his momentary silence as a tea-break and had helped himself to another thick slice of fruit cake that he was hastily trying to consume, pen still in hand. The lad was a thin as a rake and as lanky as a beanpole, yet he ate like a horse. Rose briefly pondered on the fairness of that as he felt the waistband of his trousers straining around his middle, moustache bristling beneath his nose as he cleared his throat.

'Sorry, Harold, I was just looking at the photographs again myself. Right, so you can confirm this is yourself in the image and this is the man who assaulted you. You said he didn't speak directly to you, what was he said to the girl if you can remember?'

'The girl was trying to pull the man away, she was shouting at him afraid he was going to kill me. I was afraid he was going to kill me to be honest. His hands were round my throat and he was squeezing, I couldn't breathe, the old ticker's not what it used to be,' Harold said, thumping his chest gently with one balled fist. 'He said something about me having been following them or something. I swear I hadn't been though, I was on my way to a telecommunications conference in Surrey, I'm in the telecommunications business myself you know, and I'd just popped into the petrol station to top up my tank. Helen doesn't like me to let the gauge drop below the quarter mark, she's worried I'll get stranded somewhere I think. My job takes me all over the place.'

'May I ask whereabouts in Surrey this conference took place? We might get a better idea of where they were heading.'

'I was on my way to Guildford, Sergeant.' Rose nodded as Joffa continued to write.

'And this happened at the BP service station on the A3?'

'Yes, Sergeant Rose. It was fairly late; we were the only two cars on the forecourt at the time. I didn't notice if anyone was in the shop, I was too busy getting away.'

'The cashier was the only one present that night; he was the one that contacted us as he recognised the girl from the news reports.'

'That was very kind; I didn't want to cause a fuss you see. It was only because I had to ring Helen when I got to the hotel, she can't sleep until she's heard from me no matter how late it is. She does fuss.' He smiled a little fondly at the thought of his twitchy bird of a wife.

'Did you happen to catch any names for either of them, Harold?' Rose asked.

'Well, it all happened so fast you see,' Rose nodded in resignation, trying desperately not to roll his eyes at the balding and excitable but desperate-to-be-helpful man sitting beside the lanky young detective, who was topping up everyone's fussy china cups with tea. Harold took a sip and let out a drawn out sigh. 'Now that you ask the question though, Sergeant, I do remember the girl shouting 'Gene' or 'Gin' at him, something like that. I remember it because I thought it was rather a strange name at the time.' Rose's ears, and interest, visibly perked up.

'Gin as in with ice and a slice, you think?' piped up Joffa, earning himself a narrowed glance from his sergeant.

'Well, yes, that was my first thought you see, but then it was a traumatic turn of events for me at the time and I am partial to a cheeky one or two on a bad day. But the name could just have easily been Gene or something of the sort. I'm terribly sorry, detectives; I'm not being too helpful am I?' Harold asked, earnestly. Rose smiled in his gruff, bristly way at the eager Harold.

'You're doing just fine, Harold, thank you. Now, let us just get a few more details before we get you to sign your statement and get out of your hair.' Joffa snorted into his tea, scalding his chin.

A full hour later saw the two officers ensconced in the unmarked job car parked at the curb outside the Shakeshaft's residence, statement completed and signed, carefully filed in the briefcase on the backseat. Joffa was busy trying to find a safe spot in the car for the two slices of fruit cake and three muffins Helen Shakeshaft had sent him off with, wrapped carefully in a square of tinfoil. Rose was scrutinising the photographs of the garage attack.

'I just don't understand how we could have missed these bruises on her face,' Rose muttered for the third time since reaching the car, a dark blue '11 plate Toyota. He ran his fingertips beneath his nose, ruffling his moustache and then smoothing it down in a thoughtful sort of way.

'I don't see the significance myself, Sarge,' Joffa said, finally deciding to stash his cake in the side pocket of the passenger door, where he could easily reach it should he feel the need on the journey back to the station.

'It poses the question as to whether we've been barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps our other suspect, Mr Stony-face, is the one that had been pushing our little chicky. Could be our murder was a trick gone wrong…' he raised a bushy, greying brow at Joffa, inviting the younger man to see his theory. 'We might have more luck showing our ladies a photo of this guy, instead of the victims and I think we need to do a little more digging on Alex Caelum, the guy the flat was rented by and who happens to be the registered keeper of this flashy little number,' he said, tapping the photograph he held which showed a sliver of the Mercedes on the garage forecourt. 'I think that name is an alias and if we can discover a little bit more then I'm pretty sure it'll lead us back to this Gene or Gin that Harold Shakeshaft can verify. Get back to uniform, get them flashing this mugshot at all the girls that get bought in tonight, perhaps the local prozzies can shed a little more light on who this guy is, if he's known in the Alley,' He said, referring to the stretch of road in Peckham more commonly known as 'No-knickers Alley' on account of the volume of prostitutes patrolling for a few quid beneath the glow of the street-lights. Joffa pulled his seatbelt on, shaking his head which caused his shaggy brown hair to flop about lazily.

'I don't get your obsession with prozzies and pimps, Sarge, it's unhealthy. There's more to life than 'the ladies of the night,'' he said with a grin, using the DI's favoured expression. 'Perhaps it's time you found yourself a girlfriend, then your mind wouldn't be sitting in the gutter twenty-four/seven.' The DS snorted, ramming the car into gear with a little more force than was necessary, causing the tyres to squeal on the slick, wet road as he performed a swift three-point turn and headed off in the direction of the station.

'I've got that old itch I usually get in these cases,' Rose muttered, gruffly. 'And I've not yet scratched the wrong place.' Joffa coughed to mask his amusement, reaching for his tinfoil package.

'You might want to get that looked at, Sarge.'

'Just call it in, Joffa. I think it's time for a pit-stop.' Rose could feel the sharp burn of indigestion he usually got when he skipped meals, and he'd not had a chance to wolf down any breakfast that morning before he had to leave his pokey one bedroomed flat that he shared, all be it reluctantly, with his ginger cat, Moggy.

'Too right, I'm starving! Mind if we swing by Maccy D's? They've re-released the Big Tasty, Sarge, been ages since I had one of them.'