computer?’ ‘Somebody killed him and walked out of here with their arms full of computer?’ ‘Maybe a laptop. I don’t know, I’m just speculating.’ Bliss tweaked a smile. Speculation? Was that still allowed? ‘So who is he, Karen?’ ‘Tristram Greenaway. Thirty-five. Employed by the council. Lived here on his own. There was a girlfriend, but she’s said to have moved out a few weeks ago.’ ‘Mind your back, Francis.’ Slim Fiddler was shooting video, trying to frame the whole room. Slim was Chief CSI. They liked to call themselves CSIs now, sounded sexier than SOCO. Before long, the ambitious bastards would be using American TV words like exsanguination and directionality . Bliss edged gratefully away from the action. Slim Fiddler hadn’t lost any weight; there were whole crime-scene teams who took up less room. ‘What’s Billy say, Karen?’