There is something strangely calm about the Local History Room. It’s a long, narrow space, slightly too high for its width, as if it was once part of a larger room. The floor, like the rest of the museum, is covered in black and white tiles and the walls are painted in cheerful primary colours. The window is open and the breeze blows the dusty curtains inwards. The coffin, with its straining sides, stands four-square in the centre of the room. There is a single glass case in a corner containing what looks like a stuffed grass snake. The only other objects on the floor are a guidebook and a single shoe, a brown suede slip-on, about a foot away from the coffin. Nelson stares at it dispassionately. Typical arty shoes. Real men – real Northern men – always wear lace-ups.

‘Think that’s his? Topham’s?’

Henty shrugs. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Did you see him earlier? You delivered this thing didn’t you? You and Rocky.’

‘Yes. I saw him. Only a few hours ago.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘I don’t know. A bit excited. Wound up. I suppose he was looking forward to the big event.’

Henty does good deadpan; Nelson approves. The man could be a Northerner.

‘No palpitations? Signs that he was going to drop down dead?’

‘No. He was youngish. Not overweight. Looked in reasonable health. A bit overwrought, as I say. Screamed at Rocky when he knocked something over.’

‘We all scream at Rocky. That doesn’t mean anything.’ Nelson looks around the room. ‘You haven’t touched anything in here.’ It’s a statement more than a question.

‘No, sir. Scene-of-the-crime boys are on their way.’

Quite right. That was the way modern policing worked. Don’t touch anything until the SOCO team get there with their space-age suits and brushes and little plastic boxes. In the old days, when Nelson was a young PC in Blackpool, they’d be in there right away, moving the body, getting their fingerprints over everything. Now Nelson rotates slowly on the spot, taking in the crime scene at a distance. If it is a crime scene.