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scene about now, would be able to establish the cause of death for certain.
    The sodding bastard Grace, whom he totally idolized – but sometimes was not sure why – had ordered him to go home and change, and then break the news to the husband. He could have refused, he was still off sick; and he probably would have refused if it had been any other police officer. But not Grace. And in some ways, at the time, he had been quite grateful for the distraction from his woes.
    So he had gone home, accompanied by DC Nick Nicholl, who kept blathering on about his newborn baby and the joys of fatherhood, and found to his relief that Ari was out. So now, shaved, suited and booted, he found himself in this establishment golf clubhouse, breaking the news and watching Bishop’s reactions like a hawk, trying to divorce emotion from the job he was here to do. Which was to assess the man.
    It was a fact that around 70 percent of all murder victims in the UK were killed by someone they knew. And in this case, the husband was the first port of call.
    ‘Can I go to the house and see her? My darling. My—’
    ‘I’m afraid not to the house, sir, that’s not possible until forensics have finished. Your wife will be taken to the mortuary – probably later this morning. You will be able to see her there. And we will need you to identify her body, I’m afraid, sir.’
    Branson and Nicholl watched in silence as Bishop sat, cradling his face in his hands, rocking backward and forward on the sofa.
    ‘Why can’t I go to the house? To my home? Our home!’ he suddenly blurted.
    Branson looked at Nicholl, who was conveniently staring out of the wide window at four golfers putting out the ninth. What the hell was the tactful way of saying this? Staring back hard at Bishop, watching his face, in particular his eyes, he said, ‘We can’t go into detail, but we are treating your house as a crime scene.’
    ‘Crime scene?’ Bishop looked bewildered.
    ‘I’m afraid so, sir,’ Branson said.
    ‘What – what kind of a crime scene do you mean?’
    Branson thought for some moments, really focusing his mind. There just wasn’t any easy way to say this. ‘There are some suspicious circumstances about your wife’s death, sir.’
    ‘Suspicious? What do you mean? What? In what way?’
    ‘I’m afraid I can’t say. We will have to wait for the pathologist’s report.’
    ‘Pathologist?’ Bishop shook his head slowly. ‘She’s my wife. Katie. My wife. You can’t tell me how she died? I’m – I’m her husband.’ His face dropped back into his hands. ‘She’s been murdered? Is that what you are saying?’
    ‘We can’t go into detail, sir, not at this moment.’
    ‘Yes, you can. You can go into detail. I’m her husband. I have a right to know.’
    Branson stared back at him levelly. ‘You will know, sir, as soon as we do. What we would appreciate is for you to come to our headquarters in order that we can talk to you about what has happened.’
    Bishop raised his hands. ‘I – I’m in the middle of a golf tournament. I…’
    This time Branson made eye contact with his colleague and each clocked the other’s raised eyebrows. It was an odd priority. But in fairness, when in shock people often said strange things. It wasn’t necessarily worth reading anything into it. Besides, Branson was partially preoccupied with trying to remember how long it was since he had last swallowed any paracetamols. Whether it was safe to take a couple more now. Deciding it was OK, he surreptitiously dug his hand into his pocket, popped a couple of capsules from their foil wrapper and slung them into his mouth. Attempting to swallow them with just saliva, it felt as if they had lodged halfway down his throat.
    ‘I’ve explained the situation to your friends, sir. They are carrying on.’ He tried swallowing again.
    Bishop shook his head. ‘I’ve screwed up their chances. They’ll be disqualified.’
    ‘I’m sorry about that, sir.’ He wanted to