Nathan Palmer takes the precaution of pulling on a balaclava and gloves as he approaches the wide open front door of Pickford Lodge. He’s confident of entering unchallenged. If the information he’s been given is accurate, there’s only one man left inside this building, and he’s well beyond voicing any objection to Nathan’s presence.

The chandelier in the grand hallway refracts pinpoints of bright light across the high ceiling like a twinkling galaxy of stars.

An antique chair incongruously occupies the centre of the tiled floor. Tangled around the legs are the severed strands of brocaded curtain tie-backs – they look as if they’ve been used as bonds to secure a prisoner, and subsequently sliced through with a blade. Beyond this solitary chair is the scene he’s here to verify.

Sure enough, he knows the dead man lying at the bottom of the stairs. Knows him, and hates him. This man is utterly responsible for the reprehensible way Nathan Palmer now has to live his life. That he’s dead should come as a relief to Nathan, but it doesn’t. All this corpse does is present him with a fresh set of problems.

He’s supposed to be calling the police. He definitely isn’t meant to be here in person…but when you’ve got a crime scene to strip of incriminating evidence before the local plod rock up, you can’t hang about pondering the personal ramifications of this latest in a long line of catastrophes.

Nathan Palmer wrinkles his nose against the stench emanating from the body at his feet, and begins his unpleasant but necessary task with the speed and efficiency of long practice.

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