Robin’s cold, his shirt off, in his empty bedroom. Miller was completely naked, not something Robin’s about to do, still in his trousers and socks, but it makes him wonder. The hotel room was cold, the aircon on high. If anything, wouldn’t Jonathan Miller have turned it down?

Belt still round his neck, loose end in his hand, Robin looks back at the door hook. How did Miller get it to stay up? Did he do a knot first, secure it in place, then put the noose over his neck? Or the noose first, then over the door hook?

He decides on the former, and takes the belt off his neck, tying a single knot in the end. Because of the stiff leather it holds fast, and he walks over to the door and puts it over the hook. He pulls, first tentatively, and then with more of his weight. The leather creaks, but it doesn’t move.

Then, without thinking, he slips the noose over his head.

There’s not much room to move, but slowly he places his bare back against the cold door and lowers himself into a squat, then a crouch. The leather feels tight; already he can feel the pressure on his throat. It’s uncomfortable, but not painful. He can still breathe easily.

Until his feet slip.

The force is sudden, cutting off all his air. He scrabbles frantically with his fingers at the belt, his legs kicking out, trying to get purchase on the carpeted floor. He feels his nails claw at the noose, tight, too tight, vision starting to blur, trying to get his feet back under him, push himself up.

And then, as quickly as it started, he finds himself prostrate on the ground. He pulls at the belt and manages to get his fingers under the leather, tugging it away from his neck. He takes big gasps of oxygen, then coughs uncontrollably, his throat aching, lying on his back on the carpet. He looks up through watering eyes at the door. The hook has snapped off; a piece of sheared metal lies by his side.

He sits up slowly, heart beating hard, and takes the now loose belt from his neck, throwing it on the floor. He runs his fingers under his jaw. It’s sore and rough, and he can feel a slight raised ridge where the belt must have cut in.

Fuck. What a fucking idiot. A better-engineered hook, and that would have been it. A fate like Miller’s.

He pulls himself up on wobbling legs, then sits on the edge of the bed, breathing heavily. He looks down at the belt, the knot still in the end, and remembers Jonathan Miller. A bit more luck, and the guy would have been fine. Embarrassed maybe, as Robin is, but okay. And now look at him. Dead in a mortuary, ready to go under Steph Harper’s knife.