Robin stands up and puts a T-shirt on, then changes into a pair of tracksuit bottoms. He grabs the discarded shirt and stray sock, putting them in the laundry basket, followed by the trousers, then picks up the fated belt to put it in the wardrobe.

But something stops him. He holds the buckle in his hand again – in his left hand. He remembers when he put it over his head, it ended up on that side, just behind his left ear and facing towards the right. But Jonathan Miller’s?

He races downstairs and picks up his bag and the file, the crime scene photos inside. He pulls them out and looks through them, until he finds what he’s looking for. Even allowing for the camera angle, the buckle faces the other way, towards the left-hand side.

Assuming Jonathan Miller was right-handed, as most people are, same as him. And assuming Miller had gone with the same action, holding it in his left hand, pushing the end through the buckle, putting the noose over his head. Assuming all of this, the buckle would have been on the left, facing towards the right.

How might this have happened? He turns the belt round in his hand. It’s awkward, it feels unnatural. Why would Miller have reversed the belt?

But then the thought makes Robin stop still, standing in his hallway. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, face pale, red bruise already visible, rising painfully on his neck. What if someone had been in front of him and had put the belt over his head?

The answer is suddenly clear: the buckle would have been reversed, if someone else had been there.

13

Thursday

Freya meets him at the train station. Robin notes she’s looking better this morning – hair washed, eyes brighter – although still unmistakably tired. She greets him with a puzzled, ‘What happened to your neck?’

‘Don’t ask,’ he mutters, trying to pull the collar of his coat higher. He knows how bad it looks – he woke with an angry red and blue welt under his chin, and there’s little he can do to hide it.

She stares at it, curiously. ‘Did you try—’ she starts, but he cuts her off.

‘I said don’t bloody ask,’ he growls. ‘Now go and get some coffee.’

He watches as she goes off to the café, hair swishing down her back. He’s annoyed at having to trek all the way into London to see this Kal. Apparently too busy to come to the police station. Robin was damned if he was going to let this guy off scot-free, so off they go.

Freya returns with the coffees, just as the train rushes into the platform. They fight the commuters to two cramped seats, Freya next to the window, Robin sticking his legs out into the aisle. She gives her coffee to Robin to hold and rests her bag on her lap.