‘Hopkins, is that a…?’

‘Hunk, sir..’ DC Hopkins added. ‘Specifically a Henry. Good for perfect pecs, bespoke self-tatting and..’

‘Thanks. Are they all the Henrys in there? Whatever “there” is?’

‘A garage and sump, sir. The Henrys’ preferred environment. Anywhere with oil, really…’

‘Hence the glistening?’

‘The gene pool of your basic Hunk naturally extrudes a sheen…’

DI Parmesan felt nauseous. ‘The corpse wasn’t a Hunk?’

‘No sir. A Poseur, specifically a Tarquin. Apparently, Tarquins are predisposed to be noisy and brash so congregate in hawing groups by bars and restaurants.’

‘Do they extrude?”

‘No sir.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

As they crossed to the bar, Hopkins added, ‘Tarquins preen excessively, especially working to maintain their spectacular hair.’

‘Good research, Constable.’

‘My daughter sir. She watches The Socialite of the Year show. Hunks and Beefcakes are her favourites.’

The older man stooped by the bare torso. ‘Who’d want to be perfect?’

‘Makes good TV, sir. And if a Stud is voted to marry, then they’re made.’

Parmesan lifted the sheet, a beautifully manicured severed hand sat next to its recently waxed arm. ‘And if they’re not chosen?’

‘Well, depends where they come in the public vote. Top ten and it’s this place; a permanent stud-bunny.’

Parmesan looked up, grimacing. ‘Just sex and cocktails?’

‘Not a bad life, I suppose.’

‘I think crime and a Horlicks will do me. Suspect?’

‘A Brittle. She’s over there. Her sequins are all over the stiff.’

‘He’ll never be a stiff again.’

‘Ha ha, sir, Very drole. It seems he preferred a half-Brazen.’

‘We’d better interview them.’

‘I’ve prepared this. Thought it might help.’

‘What is it?’

‘Some conversational opening gambits and chat-up-line deflectors. It’ll help you avoid any social gaffs.’

‘I’m getting too old for this, Hopkins.’