“So to clarify,” Mark was saying as he wandered aimlessly around his office, pausing at his window a moment to look out at the side of the incredibly close tree, “You dreamt someone was murdered, looked for some identification the next day without success, saw the murder had taken place, then the police came and rather than explain this very thing to the police you fled and came to see me, correct?”
“And tell me, if your passport is with the dead body in a different country, how did you get back to England?”
“I ah—Well, I never went to Morocco in the first place.”
“You have a t-shirt tan.” Mark said, waggling his finger in the direction of Brian’s neck line and resuming his pacing around the office.
“I do?” Brian asked, looking down at his chest as best he could.
Brian was definitely and understandably confused.
“I was simply seeing whether you were surprised by my say so, which you were, indicating that a suntan would be something that might take you by surprise, should you have somehow obtained one against your will.”
Brian blinked a few times, then his mouth opened. And then his mouth shut.
“Brian, I put it to you that you have as much idea of what is going on here as I do, am I correct in that assumption?”
“And in that case, how do you expect either of us to have others believe anything other than you murdered this man?”
Brian blinked some more, but found it not to be helping.
“Tell me. This dream you had, it was in your own bed?” Mark asked.
Brian shook his head, “No, no. It was at my girlfriend’s house.”
“Not in your car?”
“No. My car was outside.”
“But you do, in fact, have a car?”
“In that case, I need a lift. Would you be so kind?”
Brian would have asked Mark where he wanted to be taken, but he knew better than to try and refuse a request for a favour from Mark. He was the sort of person that simply assumed everything available was offered to him. And besides. Mark had already slung a jacket over his shoulder and slid through the gap in the jammed office door.