The ambulance has stopped, the siren cut out. We rush through the house and entranceway leading directly into the vast space. The kitchen area’s off to the left and we run over. There’s a strong smell of alcohol.

The body’s lying in a dark pool.

It’s not blood though. It’s red wine.

‘It’s him,’ Vermeer says.

I get close and reach over to feel the man’s throat. He groans when I push in for a pulse, and raises an arm to try and swat my hand away.

‘Fuck,’ Vermeer says, shaking her head.

‘We’re going to look like idiots,’ I confirm.

Running footsteps behind us on the tiled floor.

‘Well, this is embarrassing. For you two.’

I look up to see one of the two paramedics staring down at the scene. He’s got short ginger hair and black-rimmed glasses and I’m sure he spends his spare time conversing on conspiracy theory forums on the internet. He doesn’t look particularly amused.

‘The thing is …’ Vermeer says.

‘… it really looked like blood from outside,’ I finish. ‘With the sunlight and …’

He shakes his head like he’s never had to deal with such a sorry bunch of fuck-ups in his whole life, then moves closer to the body with a deep theatrical sigh.

‘You dead, sir?’ he asks, prodding him. ‘Dead, or just very, very pissed?’

Pieter-Jan Kleine groans.

‘Well, my work here is done,’ he says, standing up.

‘You could look at her hand before you go. Make the trip worthwhile.’

He glares at me, but then nods to Vermeer who shows him the cut.

‘Nice,’ he says. But he drops his kitbag and gets to work.

I get on the phone and cancel the scene of crime team. By the time Vermeer’s cleaned up and bandaged another call’s come in so the two paramedics have to run back to the ambulance, leaving us alone with Kleine.

I walk over to the bottle smashed on the tiles. Part of it is held together by the label.

‘Chateau Lafite 2000,’ I read as I pick it up. ‘Looks expensive.’

‘About a grand and a half a bottle,’ Vermeer says, adding, ‘My soon-to-be ex is a wine broker. Tosser.’

I’m stunned, both at the price, and that Vermeer has offered some personal information. But before I can follow up on the tosser wine broker soon-to-be ex she gives me a look that makes it clear nothing else is going to be forthcoming.

‘That was embarrassing.’

‘I know, but from outside it really did look like blood.’

‘Let’s get him sobered up.’

I haul him over to the sofa and wedge a large glass coffee table up against his legs to stop him moving, whilst Vermeer gets him a glass of water.

‘Two bottles of Jenever in the sink,’ she says. ‘He must be wasted.’