Tom Briggs

Tom Briggs is 29 and has served tea and whisky at the bar of a luxury hotel for four years, ever since he dropped out of hospitality school in his second semester. He was born in Bristol, the son of a nurse and a bus driver, and came to London with one suitcase and a cousin's address. He learned the trade by watching the older waiters: the right distance, the right step, the right silence.

He lives in a shared apartment with two flatmates in Lewisham, in the southeast of the city, in a pale brick building beside a busy street. His room has a single bed, a wardrobe that won't close and a bicycle leaning against the wall, which he uses to get to the hotel on mornings when the bus is late. In the shared fridge, his shelf is always the emptiest.

He is thin, with a nervous face, fair freckled skin and short red hair slicked back with gel. At work he wears a black vest over a white shirt, a black bow tie and a dish towel folded over his forearm. Polite and hurried, he calls everyone sir and speaks while looking at the kitchen door, as if someone might call him away at any moment.

About the day of the tea, his account is that of a professional: Pavel arrived shortly before 4 p.m., his coat still wet, and asked for the corner table, facing the door. He served the tea and the cups as ordered, and the sick gentleman poured for himself. Two cups were never even used. He only serves, he repeats, and knows nothing more.

Now that the bar has been closed and the hotel is asking questions, Tom is afraid of losing his job and answers everything twice, like someone checking what he has just said. It may be the natural nervousness of a waiter who watched life get complicated without having done anything. It may be the strain of someone with more to lose than he shows. The detective will have to decide which.