‘I think so. It’s not as if you could stumble on something by accident. You have to choose which pictures you want to see. But it depends how the photos have been obtained, I suppose. To me, a lot of them look like scans from official files. Mortuary assistants and crime scene photographers sharing their best work with the world.’

‘What’s “The Death Clock”?’ asked Murfin.

‘It’s a site that lets you enter your personal details – age, height, weight, whether you’re a smoker or not. And then it predicts the date you’ll die.’

‘Oh, great.’

Hitchens looked at Fry with interest. ‘Did you try it out?’

‘Yes.’

‘And …?’

‘The eighteenth of April 2040.’

She could see them both working it out, just as she’d done herself. How long she had left, what age she would be when she died. And how many years she’d be able to enjoy her police pension, if she ever made it to her thirty.

‘The Death Clock gives you your remaining time in seconds,’ she said. ‘It counts them down as you watch.’

‘It’s rubbish, though, isn’t it?’ said Murfin.

‘I suppose you might say it’s a bit of fun.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Anyway, look at these photographs Robertson submitted to Corpse of the Week.’

‘Hold on, how do you know he submitted them?’ said Hitchens.

‘The email address of the contributor is given. The professor left us his card with his contact details on, including his email address. He calls himself thanatos, of course.’

Hitchens studied the photos carefully. ‘Pretty gruesome.’

‘Where would you say they were taken, sir?’ said Fry.

‘Well, this one is in a mortuary somewhere – not ours, but it could be the Medico Legal Centre in Sheffield. And the next one is certainly a crime scene. The victim has gunshot wounds.’

‘Suicide, according to the caption. What about the other two?’

‘I can’t tell. Not a mortuary, anyway. The lighting’s all wrong.’

‘I agree. But the body has been carefully laid out, so they’re not scene photos either.’

‘What do the captions to these say?’ asked Hitchens.

‘One for the necros.’

‘Jesus.’

‘As you can see, they show a female corpse, but with no signs of violence. It isn’t Audrey Steele, thank God.’

The DI looked at her sharply. ‘You think that’s something to be grateful for?’

Fry looked down, but said nothing.

‘A funeral director’s preparation room,’ said Hitchens. ‘It’s got to be.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We ought to find out whether Robertson has any connection with Hudson and Slack.’

‘We can do that.’ Fry took the photographs back. ‘Yes, they might have been taken in the preparation room at a funeral director’s, but I’m not convinced. I’m wondering if there might be a similar room in the basement of an Edwardian gentleman’s residence.’

‘A what?’

‘Professor Robertson’s home at Totley.’