Writing Prompt 2: Arrested for a crime I certainly committed but the Cops have their facts wrong.

Interview rooms. You see them all the time on TV, but I'd never been in one until today. Without the ability to change camera angles and points of view they really are dull.

Other things in the room which are dull include Detective Constable Ross and Detective Sergeant Patel, two first class examples of real police officers who have not one quirk or eccentricity between them.

We sit and listen to the tape squeal for a few seconds and then D.C. Ross introduces everyone, all for the benefit of the tape. I'm not actually under arrest for the murder of my wealthy uncle at this point, but I'm clearly a suspect. Quite right, too, because I killed him. I stand to inherit a house and enough money to allow me to never work again. Frankly, in today's economic climate, it would be madness to have let the man live. If you need more justification than that I suppose I could tell you that he beat his wife and had a thing for children...or goats...but really my motive was entirely financial.

Not that I'll be telling the Plods this.

We establish that I had not seen my Uncle in ten years, thanks to me working in another part of the country and his being a bit Persona Non Grata at family get-togethers, after what he said to my Mum's friend Shirley. I think there's more than friendship going on there, to be honest, and Uncle as much as said so, which became his Get Out of Weddings Free card. I'm getting sidetracked.

The Brothers Plod churn through my movements over the days either side of the murder and, of course, I have an alibi for the time they believe he was killed. It's watertight. I can also attest that I had no idea that I was the sole beneficiary of his will. He wrote Aunty out of it when she left him - the beatings, remember? - and it's just chance that he left all his money to the oldest surviving unmarried male in the family (which would have been Great Uncle Charlie, until his entirely accidental death last year).

We go over the details three times. Then we go over them again in reverse order, but I'm aware of that trick and I've been practicing.

At that point, D.S. Patel leaves and he's replaced by a tall, thin, angular man in an expensive coat.

"For the benefit of the tape," the D.C. says "We've been joined by..." some consultant with an unlikely name. He looks like he might be clever, so I try to remain calm and unconcerned. The police don't employ consultants, so unless he's a trained interrogator or a profiler, I should be fine. I'm feeling good, calm, untroubled, so I don't bother listening to his name or what he consults about.

And for a consultant, he doesn't ask many questions. He's doing a LOT of talking, so I pay attention.

"Your suit isn't cheap but it is off the peg, it's important to you to look smart but you can't afford bespoke. You're in a professional environment, but you yourself are not qualified in that profession. The wear patterns on your cuffs and elbows indicates a lot of work at a desk, using a computer..."

Ah, it turns out that I was able to use my research skills to find out about my Uncle's predilection for young people - apparently he was on Facebook and making posts about exotic holidays that he was planning, and about how he wanted to learn about Thailand - and he goes from there to tell me how he knows I was present at Uncle's house the night he died. It's amazing, and the method I used was complicated and left not a trace, apparently.

According to this consultant bloke, I've been looking for revenge for the molestation I suffered at my Uncle's hands as a child. Apparently this is why I can't form lasting relationships with women and have an overwhelming fear of the opposite sex.

Now I'm surrounded by pitying eyes. I'm just a poor buggered boy who wanted my filthy Uncle dead before he could shag his way around the kindergartens of Thailand, apparently. Now they're all sorry for me being a heterosexual virgin. At my age. This consultant is talking rubbish, so I tell him.

Aunty didn't leave because of the beatings - there were no beatings (oh come on, I've killed three people. Did you think I was going to be honest with you? What makes you so special?), and she left because of his on-again off-again relationship with Raymond, a man he met at bath house and who he couldn't get his trousers off quickly enough for.

Uncle didn't like little boys or little girls, he liked pretty men. He had a particular thing for olive skinned men, which is why I made sure he met Luca. Luca needed a sugar daddy, and I made sure he knew Uncle was loaded. But I was careful to make sure Luca delayed Uncle's gratification for a while, and then I introduced Luca to a technique that I suggested would produce certain amazing sexual side effects...it's basically a series of breathing exercises that, when performed the right way and allowed to culminate in a bear hug, collapse the lungs.

Of course, Luca came running to me and I quietly poisoned him. No one's looking for Luca because he was here illegally in the first place. And it really was all about the money. The reason I've never had a prolonged relationship with a woman is that all the women I've met have either not fancied me or been incredibly dull. Also, when you're planning a triple murder - Great Uncle Charlie, Luca, Uncle - it isn't helpful to have someone around who might go through your phone or computer and trip over something suspicious...like my having created Uncle's Facebook page, or researching tasteless and fast acting poisons that you can slip into a cup of tea.

I tell him all this, ticking off points on my fingers as I work through them, and I am rewarded with a look of complete surprise from the consultant. He's speechless.

D.S. Patel, on the other hand, isn't. When did he re-enter the room? He reads me my rights and arrests me for my Uncle's murder. Which I've just confessed to.

On tape.

In front of two policemen.

Oh shit.