Claire, bless her, has quickly adapted to the unpredictable nature of my job. I sometimes think she accepts the unexpected long days, the sudden late nights and call-outs at odd hours, as the price to pay for having me finally live with her. As it happens (I'd forgotten, of course, but she texts back to remind me), it's one of the regular reading group nights she runs at the bookshop where she works, so after all I am actually home before her. In deference to the arrangement we have when the other is out late, I whisk some eggs and prep some chorizo, mushrooms, peppers and cheese, ready to make omelettes as soon as she walks through the door. While I wait, I grab a lager from the fridge and drink it straight from the tin, leant up against the sink.

Claire finds me in the same position, halfway down my second beer. She moves my arm holding the tin to one side and leans up against me for a lingeringly affectionate kiss. Drawing back, she loosens her hair from its bun and shakes it out, sliding the fingers of her other hand into mine for a moment. "Do you want me to cook?"

I push myself upright and kiss her back. "No. It's my turn. And I'd welcome the distraction."

She grins and takes the beer from my hand, draining the remains. "I still think you should cook more often. You're better at it than you think, you know."

I use my hands on her hips to move her away, and head for the worktop. "How were your reading groupies?"

She rinses and squashes the beer can, and tosses it into the recycling. "Good. Bless them." She takes another beer from the fridge and shares it out into two glasses. "I still don't think they're quite ready for hot lesbian French poetry, though."

I grin. Suggestive French poetry is what brought us together, indirectly, and it's had a special place in both our hearts since. Sometimes she'll read me some, in bed, while doing the actions; and after three years of repetition, I can just about pick up on some of the sexier references. Claire has her own professional obsessions, just as much as I do. Maybe that's why we get on so well. "You'll get there." The smell of frying chorizo and mushrooms fills the small kitchen.

"Fuck, I hope so. I really want to see their faces when they twig." She picks up her glass and moves away to lay two places on the breakfast bar. "When did you actually leave work, Beth?"

"Pretty much as I texted you." I add the peppers, and the beaten egg. "Been a long one, though."

She passes behind me on her way to fetch cutlery, and brushes the back of her hand over the small of my back, just above my jeans waistband. "I'm going to talk about my day until you interrupt me with whatever you need to get off your chest."

I nod and flip the omelettes. Claire is very good at letting people process what they need to – letting me process what I need to. She is wasted as a bookseller.

*

After we've eaten, I put my hand on her leg to keep her on her stool at the breakfast bar. Her skirt moves against her thigh under the pressure of my fingers, but I save the interest in that thought for later. Carrie Rowbotham's summary of the victim's books has been fermenting in my mind.

"So, we found a lot of books in the guy's house."

"Any lesbian poetry?"

"No." I slide one finger under her skirt briefly, between her knees, then remind myself I should concentrate for a while, seeing as I've now launched this line of conversation. "It was all quite dry."

"Oh well. Not a pervert, then."

"Well, not in that way. Obsessed, though, perhaps." I recall what struck me about Carrie's summary. "It was almost all Shakespeare and friends. Bacon, Sidney, people like that. He was apparently a tutor in English Lit, so fair enough. But...I mean...your bookshelves here are chaotic." I squeeze her thigh. "Sorry, but you know what I mean. If I was looking at your life, in terms of the books you have, I'd think you were either widely-read or difficult to pin down. This guy's interests were staring us in the face."

Claire rests her head on a hand and looks at me curiously. "Have you assessed the contents of my house while mentally pretending I'm dead?"

I blush. "Yes. Sorry. It's a habit."

Her eyes dance over my face, then she leans in and kisses me, quickly but with feeling. "It's weirdly cute." She takes my hand and links our fingers on top of her thigh. "So, a bit of an Elizabethan drama nut, your guy?"

"Mmhmm." The other odd thing about the case so far pops into my head. "How well do you know your Shakespeare?"

Claire shrugs. "Try me."

"Unusual deaths. I mean...how do people normally die in Shakespeare? I know there's a fair few sword fights, Hamlet, Macbeth and that. A few stabbings like Caesar and Juliet...Romeo was poisoned, I think?" Claire nods, and I go on. "And...Othello is strangled?"

"Desdemona is strangled. By Othello."

"Ah. Right." I slide off my stool and bring another beer back from the fridge. "Our guy wasn't strangled, stabbed or poisoned. It was brute force to the back of the head. And then the face, for good luck."

"Ouch. Did you...see him?" I nod. Claire reaches out and squeezes my hand, then takes the beer can, sharing it out between us. "Titus Andronicus bakes some young men into a pie, after murdering them. Lucrece is raped, then has her hands and tongue cut off so she can't let anyone know." She stares into the middle distance for a while. "I think that's as bizarre and brutal as it gets."

I sigh. "Sounds like Burtonheath market place on a Friday night." We both know this is silly – Burtonheath is one of the most civilised places I've ever lived.

Eastern Counties Police's PR/comms people have managed to keep today's events discreet, and the local press are letting us get on with things for now – but soon it will be big local news.

Claire and I go up to bed.