A neighbour confirms the identity of the body as Dr Francis Carter; poor old Mr Carter is comforted by friends near to his home. Dr Britten confirms the presence of animal residue on the corpse's wounds, probably pork, and that he was probably drunk when he died. There is no CCTV anywhere near Dr Carter's cottage.

The investigation stalls over the weekend.

*

I mention Britten's theory in passing to Claire.

"I hope your murderer hasn't read his Roald Dahl. For your sake, not his."

"Huh?" We're cuddling on the sofa, and I'm more interested in kissing her neck. I'm frustrated by the lack of progress at work and want to go to bed with her.

"There's a Roald Dahl story, one of his adult ones, where a woman kills her husband with a lamb shank. Sticks it in the oven and feeds it to the police afterwards. Perfect disposal of evidence." She leans her head back and lets my lips play over her skin. Her fingers stray to the zip of my jeans. "Was reminded of it by your pathologist's theory of braining the guy with a side of pork."

"Claire, can we save this? I'm not in the mood."

She turns a flushed and aroused face to me. "You're in the mood for something, Beth."

"Yes. Not work talk."