“What were you doing the night he died?”

Fetch suddenly lost his composure, and looked shiftily round at both officers.

“I’d, err, rather not say, Sir” He fiddled nervously with a fiddle he’d picked off the floor.

As the lilting strains of The Magic Flute filled the room, Harris saw his chance.

“Mr Fetch, we need to know exactly where you were”

“I was in the upstairs lavatory,” He squirmed

“There’s nothing embarrassing about that Mr Fetch, we all have to go y’kna”

“You don’t understand, Sergeant Harris, It was very odd. I needed to do number two’s, and I did, successfully…”

“Successfully?”

“I keep a log, a record of my stools, just a hobby, you know”

Harris felt an urge to retch, “So what was so odd about this particular occasion?”

“I always check the pan afterwards, for size, number, consistency, you know”

“Aye ok… and?”

“And there was nothing there, the pan was empty… so, at the time of the murder I had my hand round the U bend searching for my missing turds”

“Let me get this straight Mr Fetch, are you saying you can’t account for your movements on the night in question?”