‘That’s what killed him,’ Craig says, eggs balanced on her fork. ‘Exsanguination following a knife wound to the neck. Full-thickness lacerations on the right-hand side, severing the carotid, most likely inflicted by the penknife we found at the scene. Massive blood loss in minutes.’

‘What about these?’ Robin asks, pointing to smaller slashes at the front of his neck.

‘Penetrating stab wounds, not deep. We’re guessing hesitation marks.’ She puts another forkful in her mouth and continues, her speech muffled. ‘Bruising on his upper arms, here—’ She pulls out one of the photos and points for Robin. ‘And some larger ones on his lower flank.’

‘These look like fingertip bruises,’ Robin observes.

‘That’s what I thought. Like someone’ – she looks at him pointedly – ‘was holding Sharp tightly by his upper arms.’

‘Any other defensive injuries?’

‘Apart from the bruising, no. Stomach contents approximate some kind of sandwich, consumed just before his death.’ Craig pushes the rest of her breakfast aside, appetite obviously lost. ‘We’re still waiting on approval for a full examination of Dr Mason.’

‘To look for any corresponding injuries?’

‘Right. Although we have his clothes at the lab. Results back today.’ She pauses as her mobile starts to ring. ‘That might be them now.’

Robin waits as she answers the call, drinking his now cold coffee. From what he saw in the van, the PM results are pretty much as he expected, but to have it confirmed in such stark terms is sobering. He flicks through the remainder of the photos. It’s hard to reconcile the charming man he watched on the television last night, full of life and enthusiasm, with the cold dead body on the slab. His skin in the photos isn’t golden and tanned in the American sunshine, but dove grey and rubbery. His bright blue eyes are glassy and dulled. Death has stripped everything from him.

Craig hangs up and Robin looks at her hopefully.

‘That was Grey,’ she confirms. ‘Finn’s doctor is coming down to talk to us.’

Robin frowns. That can’t be good.

Craig continues, ‘Grey confirmed that all the blood on Mason’s and Sharp’s clothes comes from the victim. No other sources.’

‘Have you found the cameras yet? The ones from inside the van.’

‘No reports yet, sorry.’

‘And the tests on the knife?’

‘Still waiting.’ She looks up, then waves as a tall figure comes into the canteen. He collects a coffee and joins them at the table.

‘I can’t be long,’ he says. He extends a hand to Robin. ‘Dr Blackstone. We haven’t met.’

‘DS Robin Butler.’ Robin shakes it. His hand is cold and bony. Everything about the doctor is grey: grey hair, brushed back from the temples, grey suit. He reminds Robin of an actor in an old black-and-white film: he has a proper old-school air about him.