‘Already?’

‘It was in the evening paper last night, and it got a couple of minutes on the local TV news, too.’

‘Brilliant.’

Hitchens looked at him critically, as if detecting something not quite right. Cooper wondered if he’d forgotten to shave properly, or had his tie on crooked. Both were perfectly possible.

‘The lady’s name is Ellen Walker. She believes the deceased is her cousin, Audrey Steele. Here’s the address, Ben.’

‘I’m on my way, sir.’

Cooper grabbed his jacket from his chair and tried to straighten his tie. It was best to look professional when meeting law-abiding members of the public.

‘One more thing, Ben …’ Hitchens was holding out a sheet torn from a message pad.

‘What’s this?’

‘Another bit of luck for you. This gentleman is a retired forensic anthropologist with a special interest in Thanatology. Apparently, we’ve consulted him now and then in the past, and he’s been living in this area since his retirement. He’s willing to do a little consultancy work for us at no cost.’

‘At no cost? Who says?’

Hitchens smiled. ‘The vice-chairman of the police committee, who’s a member of the same Rotary Club as Professor Robertson.’

Cooper took the sheet of paper and looked at the contact details. ‘Is he ACPO accredited?’

‘Of course. Give him a try, Ben. He might be exactly the person you need.’

‘Yes, I suppose he might.’ And he thought: Especially since he’s free. But he didn’t say it out loud.

‘OK then, Ben, that’s it.’

Cooper was aware that the room had emptied round him, and the DI was impatient to get on. But his father had taught him he should never pretend to understand something when he didn’t. It always led to disaster, he’d said.

‘Er … just one thing, sir,’ he said.

‘Yes?’

‘What on earth is Thanatology?’

Hitchens looked flustered for a moment, then snapped his clipboard shut and headed rapidly towards the door, as if he didn’t have a second to spare for inane questions.

‘For heaven’s sake, Cooper – if you don’t know, look it up.’

As he was getting ready to leave the office, Cooper noticed a book on Gavin Murfin’s desk. Gavin never had books on his desk. Pies and cakes, yes. Chocolate, obviously. Anything edible, in fact. So unless this book was made of iced sponge, it was a historic first.

Murfin saw him looking. But before he could move the book, Cooper picked it up. Dozens of bits of paper protruded from it, marking specific pages.

‘A Promotion Crammer for Sergeants, Part One. I thought there must be some reason why you were suddenly talking like a training manual. What’s going on, Gavin?’

‘I’m just trying to improve my performance, like,’ said Murfin.

‘Your what?’

‘It’s something we should all stop and think about now and then, in my view. If we’re going to make any progress in our careers, that is.’

Cooper stared at him. ‘But this is a crammer, Gavin – you’re surely not thinking of going for promotion?’