He lived in Pinehurst, one of the finest residential apartment developments in the city. The 1930s building enjoyed communal grounds over which number 12 Grange Court, which belonged to Marcus, had lovely views. The second-floor apartment was light and airy and included an elegant sitting room with bay windows. It was decorated with antiques that he had collected over the years. The dining room had doors that led to the balcony, where he would often sit in the evening after work enjoying a measure of his favourite tipple, usually a single malt, while looking out over the sweeping lawns. In the winter months he took his evening drink sitting in front of the fireplace, while he read the paper and caught up with the news.

The previous night Marcus had entertained a young male guest, something he had done on numerous occasions. His sexuality, although obvious to most, was a secret he guarded. He had been brought up in an old-fashioned household.

While standing in the clean white bathroom, he observed his own reflection for a moment. There were bags under his eyes, set deep into his slender face. The whisky had taken control of him the previous night, as it so often did when he was entertaining. But most of the young, male companions who came to visit were people he’d met while walking along the river late at night. It was a good spot to pick up prostitutes looking for their next buck, in order to score their next fix. But Marcus was not an unkind man. He always treated his guests well and never expected them to do anything they weren’t comfortable with. Still, having to live that part of his life in secret had taken its toll on him, and standing staring at himself he could see that as clear as day.

Wanting to bury the memory of the previous night’s sordid encounter, Marcus ran a tepid shower and stood under the water, trying his best to wash away his sins. Had he known he was going to be spending his morning talking to the police about his dead friend, he would never have visited the river at eleven o’clock the night before.

The water could only wash away some of his guilt, and when he realised he was as clean as he would ever be, he admitted defeat and turned the water off.

Fifteen minutes later he was wearing one of his suits, complete with pocket-handkerchief and tie, and a single drop of coffee had yet to pass his lips.