‘What’s happened? He’s at work,’ the wife says, indicating the sofa opposite her. He sits down; the sofa’s large and soft and Robin finds himself sinking too far in. ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ she asks. ‘Tea, coffee?’

‘No. Thank you—’

‘What’s he done? Has he been arrested?’

Robin struggles against the soft sofa and sits up straight on the edge. He looks Amy Miller right in the eye. ‘We’re sorry to tell you this, but your husband was found dead this morning.’

‘Dead? What do you mean?’ Amy looks from Robin, to Freya, back again. He’s used to a range of reactions when people find out their loved one has died: disbelief, rage, confusion. Some just melt before you, hit the floor. Amy Miller seems to be in denial. ‘It’s not him.’ She reaches for her phone. ‘I’ll call him, you’ll see. Whoever you’ve found, it’s not Jonathan.’

‘We have his wallet and driver’s licence. We believe it’s your husband. I’m sorry, Mrs Miller,’ Robin adds again.

Next to him, Freya utters a quiet ‘excuse me’ and gets up from the sofa. He glances back at her as she leaves the room, hurrying towards the door. He frowns. This can’t be her first visit to notify next of kin, Robin thinks. Please don’t say his new DC can’t hack it. He’d assumed she’d be made of sterner stuff.

But he hasn’t got time to worry about West.

‘What happened?’ Amy Miller’s asking again, nervously fiddling with her phone. ‘Was it a car accident? It’s probably a car accident. He’s always driven too fast, I’m always telling him to slow down.’

‘No, no, it wasn’t a car accident. He was found at the Premier Inn on the other side of town. Do you know why he might have been there?’

‘The Premier Inn?’ Robin is used to next of kin repeating his words back to him as they struggle to make sense of the news. ‘Why was he at the Premier Inn?’

‘Has he ever gone there before?’

‘No, not that I know of. Why would he go there?’ And then she asks the question Robin’s dreading. ‘How did he die?’

Robin remembers the body. Grey, limp. Naked. The belt loose round his neck.

‘We believe he asphyxiated.’ He clears his throat. ‘He was found hanging in his room.’

‘He killed himself?’ The wife’s face is a mask of horror, eyes wide, skin white. ‘Why would he do such a thing? Did you find a note?’

‘No, we…’ Robin takes another breath. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but have you heard of auto-erotic asphyxiation, Mrs Miller?’

‘Auto what?’ the wife asks, in little more than a squeak.

‘It’s when the victim, usually a man, limits oxygen flow in order to gain greater sexual pleasure.’