Instead of the Maslow, he was now gripping a Glock. His Glock. Two rounds short of being fully loaded. He had no memory of firing his gun. He had no memory of loading it. He had no memory of even signing it out. The book he had gone to bed with was back on the shelf. He noted that it was sitting next to another title by the same author.

The fuzziness he’d felt on waking had been replaced by a hangover-like headache. The metallic taste in his mouth remained: more bile than blood, he noted, as he turned his attention back to the body. To the dead man on his floor.

Clean-shaven with a square jaw chiselled as if from rock, the deceased male was partially propped up against the wall opposite where Jax slept. The hole in the plasterboard above the body was the size and shape of his head. Eyes open and pupils enlarged, the dead man sat in a pool of blood. His fingers were splayed and stiff. Rigor mortis. Dead for at least four hours.

Jax scanned his room. One entry and exit point. He then looked at the body. He considered the victim’s path. He considered the killer’s path. He stood and shuffled left, stopping when he reached the adjacent wall. He hugged the plasterboard as he tiptoed along the carpet. Keeping to the base of the wall to avoid contaminating the scene, he was soon close enough to touch the body. He extended his arm and placed the back of his index finger on the victim’s neck.

The man was cold – but still warmer than the room. Dead for at least four hours but no more than eight. He looked at the man’s eyes. He did not have a flashlight but knew the oversized pupils would not react if he did. It was, however, bright enough for him to note the whites were lightly bloodshot and slightly yellow in the corner. The Kevorkian sign. He had only read about it once, but that was enough for him to remember it. He would need a thermometer and access to the man’s anus to establish the exact time of death, but the rigor mortis, his touch test and the opacity of the eyes told him that the man had expired sometime between 10 pm and 4 am. He retraced his steps and returned to the bed.

Jax turned his attention to the blood spatter. Gun still in his hand, standing beside his bed, he studied his walls and then his ceiling. He did the maths, taking into account the man’s size, what he knew about speed and impact – which was more than most – and the specs of the only weapon in the room.

It all added up.