Back at the station, I find an interesting file on my desk. In their defence, my new colleagues haven't been slack. Identifying the body hadn't been difficult – not least because one of the women on site as I'd arrived was an early-morning-jog neighbour and had alerted us in the first place when she'd found the victim's front door swinging open at 06:42 this morning.

Carl has already posted the relevant details on to the incident board, so everyone has the context, but I welcome being able to lean back in my chair and read the file.

Dr Francis Carter, aged 62. Casual adult education tutor, and sometime lecturer at Methersham College – specialist subject Early Modern English Literature, but also ran some courses for a while on Family History; unclear why his various contracts finished. No record on the Police National Computer. Single, no known attachments. Elderly father living in Berkshire.

There had been a second, partially-smeared, set of fingerprints found on site, apparently – but these had also come up clear on the PNC.

I look up and throw my voice across the office to whoever is in. "Has anyone informed the family?"

"Not yet, Sarge."

I sigh. No-one likes this bit of the job, and I guess I'm in charge so should take my fair share of the bad bits. "All right." I check the time – it's almost 7pm, the elderly parent should be at home, but not yet in bed. "Leave it with me." I pick up the phone, then reconsider and decide I'll ring tomorrow. Maybe I'll let the old man have one last good night's sleep in ignorance of outliving his own son. God knows he won't ever again, once I tell him.

*

After another hour or so, mainly spent reading DC Rowbotham's summary of the victim's books, I decide I've been on shift long enough – 13 hours since I first picked up the 'all units backup' call which brought me to the scene – and tell the night shift to call me with anything urgent. I text Claire to tell her I'm on my way home, finally.