I close the PowerPoint to illustrate that the briefing is finished. Class is dismissed. The room empties as I eject my USB from the computer but when I look around, DCI Bob is lingering by the doorway.

He closes the door and looks through the small window, seemingly making sure there are no eavesdroppers. The creases in his forehead and the slightly sweaty demeanour imply that whatever he is about to say isn’t good. As he adjusts his tie again, I brace myself.

‘There’s no easy way to say this,’ he begins, and I can feel my stomach summersault. ‘My wife has been diagnosed with cancer.’ His chin drops onto his chest and I can see tears glimmer in the corner of his eyes. I don’t know if I should hug him or if this would cross a professional line. Instead, I reach out and give his shoulder a little rub.

‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

‘Actually, there is,’ he replies, rubbing his eyes. ‘Would you mind taking charge of the investigation for the next week or so? I’ve been given compassionate leave and I know we are neck deep into this, but I can’t be here at the minute, I can’t focus on anything else but her. I need to be with Janine. I realise that you haven’t been back long, but I trust the case will be in good hands with you.’

I assure him that I’m more than happy to take the lead and he thanks me before opening the door and leaving the room. I check my watch and realise that if I don’t get a move on, I’m going to be late for Jay’s final appointment.

Liam and i jog through the sliding doors of Manchester Royal Infirmary and make our way down the corridor towards the morgue. John Kirrane, forensic pathologist, sits just outside the door of the mortuary in his overalls and socks, waiting for us with a polystyrene cup of coffee.

He brushes our apologies for being late away with a wave of his hand, before pressing the ID card hanging from his lanyard against an electronic box on the wall, which emits a beep and frees the locked door, letting us into his place of work.

On the other side of the door, Jay’s body waits. The clean, antiseptic smell of the room fills my nostrils and my eyes water at its strength. Trevor, John’s trusty technician, emerges from a side office, greets us and hands us a set of overalls each which we pull on.

‘How’s the case going?’ John asks, slipping his feet into a pair of mortuary boots.

‘So so,’ I reply, filling him in on our suspects and our lack of a breakthrough.

‘Maybe this man can help,’ he says, pointing at Jay.

His body is lying on a gurney in the middle of the room, the shimmering metal at odds to the greying body lying upon it.