I turn my radio on as I kiss Claire goodbye. It's barely seven in the morning, but she's insisted on seeing me out to my car.

The radio crackles. "This is Charlie-Bravo-247. Backup. Mill Lane, Burtonheath. Medics required." The poor lad sounds shaken.

I squeeze Claire's hand, hoping I can hide the immediate jump in my pulse. "See you later."

"Have fun." She pads back into the house.

I thumb my radio to live and duck into the car, pulling the door closed. "CB247, received. This is DS Woodcock, Carford." I bump out of Claire's drive. "I'm in the area. With you in five."

"Received, Sarge. Reckon you lot will be needed anyhow."

*

PC Banks, call sign CB247, is doing his best to stand in front of the front door of a handsome little cottage at the posh end of Mill Lane. He's fighting off the persistent attentions of a dog walker and a local busybody. At this hour, luckily, no-one else is about.

I park my unmarked car at a dramatic angle across his marked hatchback, in order to make a point to the locals, and slam the door with pointed emphasis. When Banks sees me bring a roll of tape and a pair of latex gloves out of the boot, he finds the authority to get the women to retreat back down the small front garden. Together we manage to secure the cottage.

He nods backwards into the house. "I'll let you do your stuff, Sarge."

I blow a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. "You know what's in there, don't you, Gary?"

The fact he'd called in backup had already suggested this was something unusual. In the background, I can hear the approaching sirens of at least one other marked car, and given the call-out, probably an ambulance. I've had seven minutes to accept it's sometimes a good idea not to have breakfast.

Banks swallows. "Upstairs. Back bedroom, more of a study. I've tried not to touch anything, but I had to...cover him. Just...it's not pretty..."

I nudge his shoulder. We all sometimes have to make things easier, even if it's not good scene preservation. "Thanks for being the first on scene, PC Banks." I point into the air, in the direction of the approaching sirens. "Take five, when the backup gets here."

"Thanks, Sarge."

*

The back bedroom is indeed set out as a study, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a decent-sized desk, a nice view onto the canal. I carefully lift the blanket with which Banks has temporarily covered the body.

I can understand the poor lad's impulsive reaction to hide the horror. The stiff is not a pretty sight.

He probably had been, twenty years ago, before he filled out and went grey. And he may have had a certain appeal up until yesterday, before his face had been caved in with some blunt instrument.

I let the blanket drop away from the body and call in the pathologist.