For many, it would have been a profoundly disturbing sight. But not for the ones holding up their phone cameras, snapping and videoing away. Much though he disliked them – and much though he did not want to admit it – he was a bit of a ghoul himself. Murder fascinated him and always had, like all of his colleagues in Major Crime – he wouldn’t be doing this job if it didn’t.

The one thing that separated him from the onlookers was his reason for being here – and at any murder scene. It was both a privilege and a heavy burden. To do all he could to deliver justice to the victims and closure to their loved ones.

Norman Potting, who was temporarily in the role of Acting Detective Inspector for this case, parked their unmarked Mondeo estate at the rear of the cavalcade. They walked round to the boot and Grace opened it. As he did so, he noticed something silent, high up in the sky towards the edge of the city. A glider. He nodded at it. ‘Ever done that?’

Potting craned his neck. ‘Gliding?’

‘Always looks so beautiful. Must be amazing, to be up there in total silence. Like sailing without the waves.’

His colleague looked dubious. ‘A plane without an engine? Not for me, chief. Not sure I’d want to be at the mercy of updraughts, downdraughts, thermals, or whatever they call them. Like riding a horse – did that once and it scared the shit out of me. I don’t like anything that doesn’t have an ignition switch and a brake pedal.’

‘Thought you were a farm boy. Didn’t you grow up in rural Devon?’

‘Arable, we didn’t have livestock other than pets, a few hens and some pigs. Pigs are all right and a lot safer than horses.’

‘Unless you’re the wrong end of a Mafia hit and get fed to them?’ Grace said with a grin as he reached in and opened his go-bag, pulling out his protective suit, overshoes and gloves.

‘Pigs,’ Potting said. ‘They’re very efficient. If I was going to murder someone that’s what I’d do, chop ’em into bits and feed ’em to pigs.’

‘Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you, Norman.’

Potting nodded, thoughtfully. ‘Very wise, chief.’

A few minutes later, attired all in blue outer clothing, they made their way across to the scene guard, ignoring a few shouted questions. They signed the log and greeted the Crime Scene Manager, Alex Call, who had come out to meet them, along with DC John Alldridge, who had been the first Major Crime Team officer at the scene.

‘What do we have?’ Grace asked the two men.

‘It’s not pretty, boss,’ tall, burly Alldridge said, leading them under the second tape cordon across the front door. ‘A thirty-eight-year-old man with Down’s Syndrome – looks like he’s been beaten and kicked to death.’