Kevin Draycott

Kevin Draycott is 31 and has spent four of those years behind the bar at the Lamplighter, the corner pub. Born in Southend, the son of a dockworker, he served in the merchant navy for two years and returned to land with an anchor tattooed on his forearm and no plan. He pours beer, stacks crates and knows every resident of the street by their drink. He met the nanny, Brenda, at the bar in October, and says he never saw anyone laugh like that.

He lives in a boarding house room two blocks from the pub, with a single bed, a nightstand, a sink in the room and a window onto the back of a laundry. He has a battery radio tuned to rock programs, a hanger with two pressed shirts and a coin-operated gas heater. In winter, he sleeps in socks. The landlady, a postman's widow, collects the rent on time and asks no questions.

He is thin and nervous, with a dark quiff slicked with brilliantine, long sideburns and eyes red from crying. He wears a white shirt with rolled sleeves, a black barman's waistcoat and bell-bottoms. Hot-tempered, proud, he talks fast and defends himself before he is even accused. When something distresses him, he runs a hand over the tattoo as if stroking an amulet.

About Brenda, he says her day off was Thursday, but that week she switched to Wednesday, because of his birthday. They arranged it on Monday, and only the two of them and the countess knew. If not for him, she would have been at his side the next night, and he blames himself for it. About the pub, he describes the back door, which opens to the alley behind the houses and through which he carries the empty crates. When the detective claims he quarreled with her, he answers they didn't quarrel and asks him to stop shouting.

It could be the raw pain of a young man who lost his girlfriend and clings to guilt. It could be the haste of someone who talks too much so as not to be interrupted. The detective will have to decide which.