‘Coitus interruptus, that’s what it is,’ Detective Chief Inspector Isaac Cook said. It was to be the only attempt at humour that day, and even then, it was in bad taste. On the bed, in a downmarket hotel in Bayswater, the naked bodies of a man and a woman.

‘Bullet in the head’s not the way to go,’ Larry Hill, Isaac Cook’s detective inspector, said. He had not expected such a flippant comment from his senior, not when they were standing near to two people who had, apparently in the final throes of passion, succumbed to what appeared to be a professional assassination. 

‘Do you recognise him?’ 

‘James Holden, from what I can see.’ 

‘And the woman?’ 

‘According to the driving licence in her purse, her name was Helen Langdon. There’s an address in Kensington, good street. Judging by the woman’s clothes, she had plenty of money.’ 

‘An attractive woman, or at least, she was.’

Isaac Cook could understand what his DI meant. The woman was not so attractive sprawled across the bed, the blood congealing on her and the sheets.

‘No idea what she saw in him,’ Larry said.

‘Rent by the hour?’

‘Not according to her handbag. There’s a business card. It states she worked for the man.’

Gordon Windsor, the crime scene examiner, came over. ‘Apart from you two talking while I’m trying to focus, I’ll give you what I’ve found so far.’

‘Our apologies,’ Isaac said. You know this will be all over the media within the hour.’

‘James Holden, moral crusader, a critic of pornography and infidelity, the sanctity of the marital bed, man and wife. It’s bound to be.’