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Nathan Rose had fastened an old tow rope to a roof beam, looped the other end around his neck, and stepped through the open loft hatch. He wasn’t kicking and jerking; the drop had been long enough to snap his neck. Poe held up his legs anyway.

Virginia Rose started to scream.

‘Get her out of here, Snoopy!’ Poe yelled. ‘Tilly, dial nine-nine-nine. We need fire and rescue, we need an ambulance and we need the police! When you’ve done that, call Superintendent Nightingale – she needs to get here now!’

Linus dragged Virginia away from her husband and back down the stairs. Poe knew he would never forget the cries of anguish he’d somehow caused. Bradshaw darted into a bedroom to make her calls, her eyes wide and wet. Poe took a deep breath and tried to hold Nathan Rose up, tried to relieve the pressure on his neck. He knew it was futile, but he wasn’t letting go until Nathan had been cut down.

For some reason Nathan had decided to remove his shoe and sock from his right foot. His hairless shin was rubbing against the side of Poe’s face.

Still Poe didn’t let go.

Fire and rescue arrived first. Keswick Fire Station was staffed by on-call firefighters and they only had a mile to travel. It wasn’t the crew commander’s first hanging. It wasn’t even the first that week. With Nathan Rose’s suspended body preventing access to the loft through the hatch, the commander, a burly Scot called Donald, took one look at Nathan and told Poe to let go.

Poe refused. ‘Is there an aerial ladder on your engine?’ he grunted.

‘Aye.’

‘Go through the roof and cut him down. The beam he used has splintered and I don’t think I’ll be able to hold him if it snaps.’

‘But why—’

‘Just do it!’

Donald held his hands up in supplication. ‘You’re the boss,’ he said. He turned to his crew. ‘Right, lads, you heard him; we’re going through the roof. Tim, take a hammer up there and remove the slates. Try not to damage anything but don’t hang aro . . . don’t dawdle.’

Five minutes later, Nathan Rose’s corpse was lying on the landing carpet. He had pinned a note to his shirt.

It said:

I’m sorry, Virgy, the time has come for me to sit on the mercy chair.

Poe stepped back so Bradshaw could take a photograph. He would get the crime-scene copy off Nightingale later, but he wanted one for the file now. What the hell was the mercy chair? Was it real or was it a metaphor? If it was a biblical term, it was one Poe hadn’t heard of. He glanced at Bradshaw. She hadn’t moved yet. He hoped she was OK. She’d seen dead bodies before, more than a civilian analyst really should have. But she looked as she always did in situations like this – upset but determined. For some reason she was ignoring the suicide note and concentrating on the sole of Nathan Rose’s bare foot.

Poe looked too.

And saw the alphanumeric tattoo.