Tyler led them from the kitchen into the large drawing room. One set of barred windows looked out to the stone steps at the entrance. On the opposite wall were large French windows with elegantly draped curtains, which opened onto a York-stoned patio with steps leading up to a small walled garden with mature trees and flower beds.

Spencer examined the French windows, which showed no signs of a forced entry. There were also no bloodstains in this room, which had polished pine floors and an elaborate Persian rug, two white sofas and a large tapestry depicting Tudor couples performing some kind of dance. On the opposite side of the room were beautifully carved floor to ceiling bookcases. In the center of the room was a glass-topped coffee table displaying an array of architectural books.

‘As you can see, nothing looks out of place here,’ Tyler said.

‘Is that him?’ Jane asked. Along one shelf of the bookcases were silver-framed photographs. In one of them the victim was smiling broadly, wearing an evening suit, his arm around Roger Moore.

‘That’s James Bond,’ Spencer said.

All three stood together looking from one photograph to the other. Charles Foxley was photographed at various premieres, always smiling, always immaculately dressed. The photographs were signed ‘With thanks’ or ‘With love’. One of the large framed photographs had a crack across the glass. The photograph was of Foxley standing beside a white pony with a pretty little girl. Jane looked closer.

‘This could be his daughter, Clara. Interesting: if you look closely, the photograph has been folded.’

Tyler nodded at Jane, and with her protective gloves, aware the glass was cracked, she carefully laid the frame face-down to remove the clips from the back and ease off the cardboard backing.

‘I’m right! Look.’ The folded-under part of the photograph showed Foxley’s ex-wife, Justine, with a black felt-tip cross over her face.

‘I want that bagged,’ Tyler said.

The same pale blue carpet ran through into the bedroom. The simplicity of the room was enhanced by the almost matching pale blue silk-covered walls and the white fitted wardrobes. The vast king-sized bed had an array of blue silk throw pillows and a quilted silk bedspread. There were pieces of cardboard running along the carpet to the bed, where the pooling blood had taken on a hideous body shape. There was a gold ormolu clock on the bedside table and a selection of leather-bound books on the opposite matching table. Tyler stepped carefully across the cardboard to ease open a wardrobe door. Behind it was a safe and a number of slender drawers. He crooked his finger to pull out a drawer.