She nods, somewhat reluctantly, then leaves as the doorbell rings again. Robin slowly goes round taking photos on his phone. Half-full drinks, abandoned on the table, lipstick marks on the rims. An array of what Robin can only describe as sex aids – tubes of lube, interestingly shaped cones, plastic beads. Robin can’t help but wonder about hygiene – are they shared or individual? – then pushes the thought out of his mind. The paramedic arrives in his recognisable green, and immediately attends to Emma, bag by his side. Like Robin, he doesn’t bat an eyelid. He must have seen it all.

Robin puts plastic gloves on, collected in preparedness from the stash in the boot of his car, then picks a condom out of the bowl on the table. They seem custom-made, Select Events written on the front in gold lettering.

‘You can keep it if you like,’ Mrs Franklin says, appearing behind him. He quickly drops it back in the bowl.

‘And the rock?’ he asks her.

‘More like a brick,’ she says, pointing to a large lump of red concrete sitting on the mantelpiece next to something large, metallic and rocket ship-shaped that makes Robin clench internally. ‘Sorry,’ she finishes. ‘I realise now we shouldn’t have picked it up.’

‘It’s fine. Where was it?’

She points to a corner of the room and Robin goes across, bending down. A scattering of brick dust marks where it fell, plus, just poking out from behind a table leg, a piece of folded-up paper and a broken elastic band.

Robin picks the note up with two gloved fingers, opening it out.

It’s a sheet of lined A4, two holes down the left-hand side, as if taken from a notepad. SLUT, it says in blue pen, large capitals across the middle. Robin snaps a few photos then takes a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and puts the note inside. He records the information on the label in biro, then does the same with the rock.

‘Any idea who might have written this?’ Robin says, turning and showing the message to Mrs Franklin. Her hand immediately flies to her mouth. Her face goes pale.

She shakes her head quickly. ‘How— how dare he,’ she stutters.

‘Mrs Franklin,’ Robin says slowly. ‘What do you know?’

She looks at him for a moment, her eyes wide, then gestures towards the door. Robin follows her out and down a hallway. As they walk, Robin notices more photographs on the wall. Family shots: Mrs Franklin, an older man and a small boy, growing taller as the photographs progress through time.

They reach a kitchen. It’s brightly lit, with uneaten food lying on platters. Glasses are laid out, bottles of spirits and wine next to them.

‘Mrs Franklin?’ Robin tries again. ‘What exactly do you do here?’