The decrepit automobile was surprisingly quick and nimble on the old, worn roads of the outskirts of Antrim, it's heart growling fast and of course, loud.  However being Christopher, and more importantly a detective, he made sure not to push his luck, and cross horns with death too soon. Unlike typical 'elderly' people, he drove at a reasonable pace, but one which he could always control. My younger self didn't quite understand this but after several cases involving fatal road accidents and his reasoning that he would despise another 'damn detective' to poke and prod at his last moments. I had to agree with him, he had a wonderful, almost magical way with words, always managing to convince me of his very personal opinion, a trait that was, of course, invaluable in the courtroom.  I was very much looking forward to these 'interviews' as he chose to call them, as if renaming them would remove the traumatic and terrible ordeals that occurred in the innocent-looking white rooms.  Behind the cheap coffee cups and pressed suits and ties often lay cold hearted killers.  Across the table sat a potential murderer, rapist, terrorist or liar. Together we must have put a quarter of Northern Ireland's most terrifying criminals behind bars. Norton came into his element in that room, dousing his suspects with spit, shouting questions at them, leading them into a false sense of security before pouncing, all the while searching for the truth.  The man was a genius, but of course he had to do it in style.

We were approaching the station now, accompanied by the wails of police sirens and ambulances, attending to the wounded, with rapture and speed, just as we desired to do to our suspects. The car was parked in the rear of the building, its brakes leaving tyre tracks on the newly surfaced car park.  We stepped out, my boots, clicking in time with my steps, collecting small droplets of water from the sodden stone. This time not even Christopher, the unique man that he was, swung his walking stick in the freezing autumn air. We had to appear professional, and above all else, credible.  We must be shown to take the situation with the upmost respect, however I couldn't stifle a smile when Norton walked right past the nervous young man checking security cards.  I quickened my pace, the clicking accentuating as we entered the building itself, with it's clean, tiled floors.  The place reeked of bleach and sweat and I couldn't help but wonder how many incidents ad taken place inside this building, the officers involved in the troubles that never returned to their posts.

We made our way to interrogation room three, Norton's favourite as it came with free coffee, not the instant rubbish, the proper stuff. Just one benefit of our acclaimed status as well as the severity of the cases that we discussed behind closed doors. 

Our first suspect was a man in his early thirties, his vibrant shirt perhaps as colourful as his recent endeavours into murder.  His face was by no means attractive, but showed a hint of something mysterious, as if he was hiding something.  Something dark and brooding, like a snake slithering through the grass, ready to bite.

His name was Daniel Letterman, a Cambridge graduate in law.  Unfortunately this man could be difficult to deal with, his knowledge of the law a great asset to him and a great hinderance to us, and our search for the truth. We exchanged frosty greetings as we offered him our hands. Christopher had told me this was important, as it made us appear unfazed and not intimidated by our suspects.  But I couldn't help thinking, as I shook his hands with the man, that he could have used them for something far more grisly than simple introductions.