Robin didn’t see her again for another year, but she remembered him, smiling a greeting as they both turned up at a suspicious death. A man, knife wound, gut split open in the street. She was nicer that time, meeting with him after and patiently answering all his questions. Then she invited him out for a drink.

Sometimes she had a boyfriend, sometimes she didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter. Sometimes they went back to her place, sometimes they didn’t do anything at all, merely parting with a chaste kiss in the doorway. Robin didn’t really care. She was fun to be around, and she understood a cop’s black humour.

And tonight he is grateful for the company. He doesn’t want to go home, the sight of Jonathan Miller’s naked corpse dwelling on his mind.

He is at the bar, ordering their next drinks. Pint of ale for him, G and T for her. He idly looks at the menu; the food’s good here, they should order something. He puts the menu under his arm and carries it back to the table, drink in each hand.

The pub’s nice, a regular haunt for them both. Low, squashy, dark brown leather sofas. Battered oak tables. Large mirrors, in rusted metal frames. Smart, but not so smart he feels awkward turning up messy straight from work.

Steph’s been telling him about the post-mortem she carried out that day, a drug overdose in one of the local parks. Sixteen-year-old kid, such a waste.

‘And I heard about your guy,’ she finishes. ‘My colleague had the wife in at six to identify the body.’

‘Amy Miller?’ Steph nods. ‘How did she behave?’ Robin flags down a passing waiter and orders a sharing plate for them both. Mezze, or some other pretentious name for a bit of houmous and some flatbread, but he can’t stomach proper food after the previous two pints of beer.

‘He said, much as you’d expect. Pale, crying, nothing out of the ordinary. Did she know what he was into?’

‘Interviewing her tomorrow. But I’m guessing not from what she said today.’

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.’