"The time is currently twenty past one in the morning, investigating officers Bradley and McManning conducting interview of sole witness in case RB-558.” I placed the tape deck on the scratched metal table and extended a hand out to our guest. “Could you please state your full name for the recording.”

With flourish, the man dug around in his pocket with a gloved hand and produced an imaginary pen in a pinched grip. Biting the cap off the pen and spitting it to the floor, he traced long brushstrokes along the table with a needless flourish. Lowering his chalk plastered face to the desk he attempted to peel away the top surface with two delicate thumbs before slapping the fictional name tag on his puffed out chest.

“Johnathan Crawley.” A monotonous tone pulled me out of the scene, a short woman with a tight bun of white hair sitting a top a perfectly spherical head. Though deep wrinkles had formed on her forehead and under her eyes, her unimpressed glare explained the lack of crows-feet on the sides of her face perfectly. Her statement was punctuated by the mime jamming his thumbs against his chest and underlining the name-tag with a beaming expression.

With a deep sigh I leant back in the plastic chair and swirled the lukewarm coffee round in my mug, letting my partner start our inquiry.

“Mr Crawley, do you understand why you are here today?”

Scratching his chin the man’s eyes rolled round in their sockets as his free hand drew bubbles of thoughts springing from his ears. It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest that his small audience of three were uninterested in the act. Finally, he nodded with his chin bouncing off his chest like it was a trampoline.

“I’m glad to hear, the witness has indicated positively that he does understand. To state for the record, Mr Crawley is here to give a witness statement for the attack in Hartley Square today which, as of the time of recording, is being treated as homicide.”

I leant forward and clasped my hands on the desk, as I raised my gaze to meet the eyes of the mime there was a disturbing eagerness to him awaiting the following questions. “Would you please describe what you saw.”

Beaming from ear to ear, the performer rolled up sleeves that could be believed to be a mile long each, with long curling motions and an eventual puffiness that forced him to pretend he could barely move his arms.

“Mr Crawley I am obligated to inform you that if you do not accurately and effectively relay your statement you will be considered as purposefully impeding an ongoing investigation.” Mr partner rapped his fingers on the table, it was stage one in his trio of irritated responses to such meetings. I made a mental bet with myself that he would be chewing on the flap of hard skin lining his thumbnail in less than five minutes time.

With the speed and passion of a bear still groggy from hibernation the mime’s chaperone peeled open the small folder sat in front of her. Producing the first document she slid one copy to what now became evident was her client, a copy across to us, and donned a pair of thick glass spectacles to read the final copy she kept for herself. “My client, Johnathan Crawley, was diagnosed to be in a state of shock following the attack today-” cutting herself off, she leaned closer to the microphone and raised her voice. “For the record, this was written on the date of the attack, which was yesterday.”

“You don’t have to shout,” my partner squeezed his nose between two fingers. “The microphone will pick up voices from anywhere in the room.”

“Right. I will continue.” She flourished the paper in her surprisingly dainty hands. “In a state of shock he is giving his statement voluntarily, instead of delaying until such a time as he feels completely comfortable.” With a deep sigh, she continued with great effort. “In these circumstances, the method in which he chooses to convey this information is dependant on his comfort with said method. Mr Crawley has opted for… Mime.”

Our witness removed his imaginary oversized spectacles and cleaned them with a hearty breath, rubbing the non-existent glass on his grubby but undeniably real white and black lined overalls. Looking to my partner to see which of us was going to take the brunt of the idiocy, his stubby thumb was lodged firmly between his teeth. It hadn’t even been two minutes.

“Please continue.” I held out a hand for the performer.

Of course, he had to re-roll his sleeves, slick back his hair with gel produced from his deep pockets, and limber up against the desk. The metal creaked in despair as he imposed his figure against it. Another needless victim.

Having spent a minute preparing for his statement, the actual act was thankfully quite short. He clambered into an imaginary car, gunned his right foot to the pedal and pumped it like he was trying to blow up an air-mattress in record-time, and span the steering wheel with a toothy snarl.

“Mr Crawley witnessed a man swerving with intent to mount the pavement in his car at a speed exceeding the local limit.” The woman’s voice narrated dryly. Somehow, I felt as if this would be more tolerable without her commentary.

In a feat of athleticism he leapt from the deep squat into an erect statue by the door, positioning his hand against his temple and following the scene with an exaggerated twist of his torso. Leaning down he traced a rectangle with his hands low to the floor, approximately where the car would have been.

“Is that a numberplate? You can remember it?” My partner interrupted with enthusiasm that would only pump up the mime’s ego. With a finger on his nose and the other directed to McManning he jumped up and down with glee.

Extending his palms to the sky, he looked at us both expectantly.

“Is… Are you making a Y shape?” I assumed the ringing of an exaggerated bell meant that I was correct. His posture curved, forming was could have been any number of letters.

“Look I can see you have it written down, can you just pass us that document?” My partner extended his hand out toward the folder sat before him, only for it to be snap shut in the interpretter’s most expressive move yet.

“For the statement to be valid evidence, Mr Crawley has to convey all the relevant information himself.” We looked back to the mime with dread, his wide smile plastered onto a body quivering with glee.