He looks at Steph in the low lighting. Even after all this time, he doesn’t know much about her. He guesses she’s younger than him: she’s in better shape by far. He knows she runs triathlons: muscular shoulders, flat stomach, low fat percentage. Unlike him, he thinks, feeling the pints sloshing in his belly.

‘Poor woman,’ Steph comments, repeating Robin’s own thoughts. ‘Imagine arranging a funeral for a husband who died trying to get his rocks off in that way. What makes a man do that?’ She stares at him pointedly over her G and T.

‘Don’t look at me!’ he protests. ‘I’ll tell you now, if you ever find me dead in that way, make sure you investigate properly. It’ll be murder for sure.’

‘You don’t fancy it then?’ She takes a sip from her drink, her eyes amused.

‘What? Wrapping a belt round my neck and sitting naked on a scratchy hotel carpet, wanking off to some shitty porn?’

‘That’s how you found him?’

‘Yeah, limp dick and all.’

Robin stops as the waiter brings the food out to the table.

‘Limp dick?’ Steph repeats, and the waiter flashes them a look before he leaves. Robin pulls off a piece of bread and dips it in the houmous. He puts it in his mouth, watching her. She seems deep in thought. ‘You sure it’s an accidental death?’ she adds.

He frowns. ‘Why?’

‘Just that… normally in these cases there’s still some sign of an erection.’

‘Even on the deceased?’

‘Yeah.’ She pauses, looks at him. ‘Body still around?’

‘On ice. You want to take a look?’

‘I’ll have a word with the coroner. Get it transferred to me tomorrow.’

Robin chews thoughtfully. ‘Don’t take too long on it,’ he says, through a full mouth. ‘I mean, there’s nothing suspicious there.’

But he doubts himself. He wonders whether he should have called a pathologist to the scene rather than just the ambulance service attending as is usual procedure with sudden deaths. Maybe he should have upgraded it to a category one, but it didn’t seem dodgy. It didn’t look like any offence had been committed.

His own words echo in his head – make sure you investigate properly.

They go back to her place. They have perfunctory sex: more like scratching an itch than high-level eroticism. But Robin can’t bear to think about doing anything adventurous, not after poor old dead Miller, and Steph propositioned him with the words, ‘Fancy a quickie, then?’ so she couldn’t have been expecting anything earth-shattering either.

She goes into the bathroom after, still naked, making no effort to cover herself up, and Robin wonders why neither of them has made the move to get together properly. He likes her, she seems to like him, so why not?

But as she comes back to the bed, he stays quiet.

‘You staying?’ she asks, pulling the duvet across her.

‘Do you mind? I can’t be arsed to get a cab this time of night.’