The house is big and grand and recently built, on a new estate at the edge of town. As he drives past the identical cul-de-sacs Robin notices a half-finished child’s playground. He indicates as he approaches number eight.

There’s a car parked by the side of the road. One of those pastel-blue trendy Fiat 500s – old style made new. He pulls up behind it and his DC gets out.

‘Apparently they’re going to put a Co-op in when it’s all done,’ Freya comments, pointing to the muddy field in front of the house, where they clearly haven’t finished building.

Robin grunts in response. He’s known DC Freya West for a few years in CID, but it’s only this week that she’s been assigned to him.

‘You can’t work by yourself for ever,’ his DCI, Neal Baker, had said, with forced cheer. ‘You’ll enjoy the company.’

Robin wasn’t so sure. He knows her from around the station: she’s keen, seems intelligent, but sometimes her enthusiasm grates – a constant chatter about whatever enters her head at that specific time. He just wants to get the job done. He doesn’t need to know about town planning and the placement of local conveniences.

He looks towards the house. There’s a car in the driveway and a light on in one of the top bedrooms, even though it’s barely two p.m.

‘You’re leading, right?’ Freya asks, and Robin nods. He’s rehearsing the words in his head, a speech he’s used too many times. Back in uniform, he was told: always have a hat. Always, always have a hat. And today, in plain clothes, he does up the buttons on his suit jacket, straightens his tie.

He’s not sure how he’s going to broach the question that every next of kin asks: how did he die?

‘Who’s the deceased?’ Freya asks as Robin rings the bell.

But he doesn’t have time to answer. The door is opened by a pretty woman, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, with a short, blunt blonde bob. She’s slim to the point of skinny, her cheekbones jutting out from her pale face. He notices a large bruise on her forehead, a few days old, he guesses, mottled purple and green.

‘Amy Miller?’ Robin asks and she nods. ‘I am DS Robin Butler, this is DC West. Can we come in?’

Amy moves out of the way and lets them through. Her body language is wary, as most are when the police arrive courteous and polite. They know, deep down, what’s going to happen.

‘It’s about your husband, Jonathan. Would you like to sit?’

Next to him, Robin notices Freya stiffen, no doubt preparing herself for the news they have to deliver.