Gorrie did not know about the face, would not know until he saw a photograph of her as she’d appeared in life. Most of it was gone, blown away by a .38-caliber bullet, and there was blood all over the rest. The shot that killed the husband was cleaner, a single entry wound in the middle of his forehead. Probably he’d been asleep when it was fired, never knew what hit him. His face was tranquil, eyes closed. There was a dash of foam at the corner of his lips.

Gorrie could see that the pillowcases were soggy and red under their heads, under the pistol clutched in the woman’s left hand, her finger curled around the trigger, its short barrel thrust into what remained of her mouth.

Standing at the foot of the bed, Gorrie experienced a brief twinge of guilt that had nothing to do with his appreciation of the dead woman’s comely shape. In police work, you noticed what you noticed. The best and worst in people often rubbed up close, and he would not damn himself for being human. But whatever had happened to the couple, or between them, their intimate connection was a strong thing in the room, and Gorrie suspected his discomfort came from the peculiar feeling that he’d somehow intruded upon it.

He turned to the young constable at the door behind him. “What’s the crack on Drummond from the Child Protection Unit?”

“On his way. Someone from Social Work’s coming with him.”

Gorrie motioned to the left, where they’d found the couple’s infant son in his nursery adjoining the master bedroom.

“Baby’s quiet. You sure he’s okay?”

“Aye, sir. We—”

In the outer hallway, the woman who’d discovered the bodies was working up to another fit of teary hysterics. Her name was Christine Gibbon, and she’d identified herself as the best friend of the looker in the tidbit nightie, stressing in the bluntest of terms that she’d held an absolute loathing for the man of the house and gone out of her way to avoid contact with him whenever possible.

“More of a bawler than that little one, she is,” Gorrie muttered under his breath. “But let’s hear what you were saying. . . .”

“We found some formula in the kitchen. Nappies in a closet near the crib. Robertson gave him a change. And he’s got him on the bottle right now.”

“Four boys of his own, dabbing the piss off a rashy tossel must be nothing new.”

“Aye. I’d suppose.”

Gorrie released a sigh.

“All right, you’d best get somebody in here with a camera,” he said. “Capture the moment, as they say . . . not that I expect either of these sweethearts’ll be sending the other any endearments next Valentine’s Day.”