I check Ed’s Twitter page and note that he barely uses it. The most recent post is from last year, and is a RT from a blogger praising his latest work. He didn’t bother replying.

I open my phonebook and consider calling Bob, to check in and see if there is anything I can do, remotely. I hover over his name but ultimately decide against it. I can hear his dismissive tone and his refusal to divulge anything.

Instead, I navigate to Martin’s number and press on it. It takes a nanosecond to realise that it is a bad idea and I press the red button before the call has a chance to connect. If Martin knows I’m supposed to be taking time off, he’ll be straight to Bob to let him know I’m meddling. He is a stickler for the rules.

Frustrated, I throw my phone onto the Sherlock chair where it lands with a small bounce and a dull thud.

I take a slurp from the still-hot coffee cup and open the lid of my laptop. Though the case against him is pretty good, the feeling that Rory is innocent in all of this still niggles at me.

I log in to the police database and access the file containing all the information related to this case. I re-read the details of Anna’s death; the actual killing, the book page, the removed, though never recovered, tongue. Someone who followed the words in The Threat as gospel. Finally, I scan over the photos but there is no new information to be collected.

I open the file containing the material concerning Jay’s murder. As I read, a statement from John, the forensic pathologist, jumps out at me. The trauma to the head must’ve been delivered by someone tall. We know this from the position of the blows. However, the number of blows it took to kill Jay suggest a weakness in the attacker. This corroborates what Ben told DCI Bob during his interview about hearing Jay’s attacker cough as he walked away.

I grab my phone from the seat and find John’s number. I call him and pray that he is alone when he answers. Luckily, God has listened.

‘Erika, how are you?’ he says. He sounds tired. I tell him that I am well and move swiftly onto business.

‘I was just wondering if you’d finished Reuben’s post-mortem yet?’

‘Not long ago, actually. I haven’t written the report yet,’ he says, apologetically.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply. ‘I’m just exploring an avenue with regards to his death at the minute, and was wondering if there was anything odd about your findings?’

‘Not really,’ he says, much to my disappointment. ‘The killing is very much in keeping with the others; unbelievable violence and a nasty end.’

He assures me that as soon as he completes the report, it will be on my desk. I thank him and hang up. Hmm, nothing new gleaned there.

I pull up the photographs from Ed’ house. The downstairs rooms are exactly as I remember them; the door kicked off its hinges and lying on its side, the streak of blood on the frame. I’m reminded of that crappy action film Tom had chosen the night before he left for home. I think back to the house in the opening scene with the perfectly distributed shards of glass and the broken television. I look at the pictures on my laptop screen again. Am I really looking at a crime scene or simply what appears to be a crime scene?