The PC taps the body-worn camera on his chest, then looks apologetic. ‘Paramedic needed to examine him properly.’

‘And you think it’s a cat two, G 28?’

But Robin doesn’t wait for an answer, and steps inside.

It’s slightly cold, the aircon turned up high, but apart from that there’s nothing strange about the room. The bed looks untouched – the duvet tightly tucked in at the edges of the mattress, the purple throw draped over the bottom. Clean, white pillows, terrible artwork on the walls. One black coat hangs on the rail and Robin picks it up, looking in the pockets.

He finds a black leather wallet and an iPhone, opens the wallet and pulls out the driver’s licence.

‘Jonathan Miller,’ he reads to no one in particular. ‘Date of birth nineteenth of May.’ He reads the year then stops, looking to the ceiling, doing the maths. ‘Thirty-nine.’ He reads the address aloud. ‘Ashcroft Drive, Winchester.’

Robin turns to the PC still behind him. ‘He lives just down the road. What was he doing here?’

The PC doesn’t answer, just points to the body lying on the floor, partially hidden by the bed.

Robin takes a step forward, seeing it in full for the first time. ‘Ah, shit,’ he mutters.

‘You going to be the one to tell next of kin?’ the PC asks.

Robin sighs. ‘I guess so, yes. Find out who it is, will you?’

He walks forward and crouches next to the body. The cause of death is clear: a brown leather belt looped round his neck, now loose and gaping. An angry red mark cuts into the flesh, showing the clear pull upward.

Robin scans the wall and furniture around them. ‘Where did he tie it?’

‘Round the door hook.’

Robin glances back to the main door. The small silver hook doesn’t seem sturdy enough to take the weight. ‘And we think he was here overnight?’

‘Initial enquiries say so, yes. Cleaner assumed the room was vacated, even though he hadn’t checked out. Let herself in just past midday and found the body.’

Robin stands up. He notices a magazine lying open on the desk, and goes over to it. A double-page spread of a naked woman confronts him, her legs apart, mouth gaping.

‘It was open to this?’ he directs to the PC behind him, who nods. Robin flicks to the next page, another woman, red lipstick, pubic hair completely absent. Standard porn, he thinks.

‘Preserve the scene for now,’ he says to the PC. He hands him the phone and wallet. ‘Put these into evidence. And that.’ He points to the porn magazine. ‘And I want that video as soon as possible. Where am I going?’

‘Eight Ashcroft Drive,’ the PC confirms. ‘Wife. Amy Miller.’

Robin thanks him, then dials a number.

‘West?’ he barks. ‘We’ve got a death to report. Meet me at next of kin. I’ll text you the address.’