But how? She’s struggling to get her head around what she heard her new boss tell Amy. She’d stood outside the room, her head whirring, as Butler’s low tones gave the awful news. Auto-erotic asphyxiation? It’s too bizarre for her to take in. Jonathan – her Jon – died in an accident in some strange sex game? That isn’t him. It couldn’t be. Jon, a man who would only do it with the lights on if she forced him, trying some kinky strangulation experiment? She just can’t believe it.

But he’s dead.

The thought makes her body crumple. A heavy weight takes over. Her head drops, her legs feel weak. And she puts her hands on the steering wheel and cries.

After fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, her phone starts to buzz next to her. She stares at the screen: Butler. She knows he must be back at the station by now, wondering where she is.

She looks out of her windscreen into the street beyond. A few people walk, hands thrust in pockets. The season has just edged into autumn, the air is colder, sky grey, colours muted. It feels apropos to her life now: he has gone. A hole has been left where he once was.

She knows she needs to go back and tell Butler what’s going on. He’ll find out soon enough. She’ll be excused from the case, moved to work on something else and the investigation will carry on without her.

She faced her new assignment with trepidation. Robin Butler is known by her colleagues for being brash, grumpy, rude. But a solid detective.

‘You’ll learn a lot from him,’ DCI Baker said. ‘Just try not to piss him off on your first day.’

‘How might I do that?’ she asked her colleagues.

They laughed. ‘Breathing,’ they replied.

She pulls down the mirror in the sun visor and tidies herself up as best she can. But she looks like she’s been crying: face puffy, eyes red. There’s not much she can do, except lick her finger and rub off the mascara under her eyes. Then she drives to the police station.

When she gets there, Butler’s sitting at his desk, staring at the screen, twisting to and fro on his chair. His middle finger taps repeatedly on the desk like he has a slight excess of energy, the momentum at the beginning of a case making him restless.

He sees her arrive and a frown forms. He has almost permanent ridges on his forehead, an expression so overused it’s worn creases across his face.

‘West,’ he begins without greeting. ‘The PC has sent over the CCTV from the Premier Inn. Need you to look at it, and try and track down traffic cams or ANPR.’ He talks fast, his gaze back on his monitor.

‘Sarge?’