‘Much as you’d expect from a strangulation. Numerous petechiae around and on the eyes. Pronounced ligature mark on the neck,’ she says, pointing to the red lines and bumps circling his head. ‘Mild pulmonary congestion, but no further abnormalities. No injury to neck tissues. No pericardial or pleural haemorrhage or petechiae.’

‘Which means?’ Robin asks.

‘Carotid artery obstruction resulting in cerebral hypoxia. All things considered, it appears he asphyxiated.’

‘Ah.’ Robin feels a swell of disappointment, then wonders why. This isn’t a bad thing. He knows how Miller was found, he knows what it showed. ‘Wouldn’t you expect more injury to the neck?’ he asks. He’s only too aware of the last remnants of the bruises under his own chin, now faded to a pale red mark, hopefully passing for a shaving rash or something else innocent.

‘Not necessarily,’ Steph replies. ‘Because he was found incompletely suspended—’ She glances at Robin. ‘Not hanging off the ground,’ she clarifies. ‘There wouldn’t be much pressure to the neck. And you’re sure it’s not a suicide?’

‘No note, no previous depressive behaviour,’ Robin replies. ‘Why?’

‘It’s just…’ Robin sees Steph frown behind her mask, then she gestures to her office at the rear of the main mortuary. He follows her in, as she pulls off the protective gear. ‘You want tea?’

He nods, and she turns on the kettle propped up on a fridge behind them.

‘I went through the crime scene photos you sent me,’ she says, laying out two mugs and popping teabags in. ‘And some things don’t make sense.’

‘Such as?’

‘I did some reading up. Typical auto-erotic cases, especially men, would have other indicators. Cross-dressing, something wrapped round the genitals, such as an elastic band or a ribbon.’ Robin winces. She continues, enjoying his discomfort. ‘Foreign bodies in the rectum – vegetables, tampons, table legs—’

‘Now you’re taking the piss,’ Robin interrupts.

‘I’m not. I’m really not. The literature reports one case of a traffic cone.’

‘Oh, bugger off,’ Robin mutters.

‘But there’s none of that here.’

‘There was porn in the room,’ he says.

‘Yes, but no penile engorgement or semen consistent with a recent ejaculation.’

‘Perhaps he hadn’t got going,’ Robin suggests, and Steph shrugs. ‘Tox results back?’

‘Not yet. Although…’ She goes back into the mortuary and returns with a lidded glass jar with a green-beige liquid inside. ‘Stomach contents,’ she says with a smile, swirling it round in front of him.

Robin’s own insides twist in response. ‘Which was?’

‘We’ll have to wait for full analysis to be sure, but my first guess when I opened him up was that he hadn’t consumed much food close to time of death. And it definitely contains alcohol.’ She goes to open the lid. ‘Want to take a sniff?’