It took six hours before Martin Prescott could don a blue paper suit and shoes. His white paper face mask sat round his neck as he watched Sally pointing at the partially collapsed roof and muttering to Sub. When Sub nodded, Prescott immediately pulled up the mask. The man of few words had spoken.

Inside Rose Cottage, scaffolding held up the charred ceiling beams and the loose stones from the walls had been removed, leaving behind a relatively solid and safe structure. Visually, the scene was as Prescott expected, based on the preview he’d got from Sally’s videos, but nothing ever prepared him for the smell of a body. The stench of burnt flesh and bones overpowers every other sense and, even through his face mask, he could smell and taste the distinctive miasma of “long pig.”

“‘Long pig’ is what cannibals call human beings,” Sally had explained on their first ever meeting at a crime scene, more than fourteen years ago. “By all accounts we taste like barbecued pork and, as we cook, we definitely smell like it.”

“Fuck me,” Prescott had mumbled through his face mask. “No wonder you’re single.”

Now, Prescott and Sally paused just inside the jagged hole in the wall that used to be the front doorway of Rose Cottage and watched the dog handler lead her spaniel through the rubble. The dog wore tiny red canvas boots, Velcroed in place around the ankles and with thick rubber soles that protected her paws from smoldering embers and sharp debris, allowing her to work safely and comfortably. The single repeated command of “Show me, Amber” was all that could be heard inside Rose Cottage.

Amber’s handler kept her off the sofa, as the charred body was still there. The dog worked hard, sniffing and moving around the remnants of furniture. Her tail wagged, her tongue lolled, she jumped and rummaged, but she didn’t make one single indication that an accelerant was present.

“Maybe the fire burned intensely enough to destroy any accelerant?” Sally speculated. “Or maybe a less common one was used. The dog only knows the most common ones, such as petrol or household flammables. Your forensics people might still find accelerant on the items you collect.”

“I’ll make sure I’ve got a tennis ball in me pocket if they do.”

Sally giggled at the unstoppable image that popped into her head, of an entire forensics team being trained to seek out evidence with the promise of a ball as a reward.

“I think the ball only works with Amber.”

Prescott signaled for his blue-suited SOCOs to descend on the scene. He pointed at the sofa.

“There’s a body in there, fellas, but it’s goin’ nowhere, so don’t rush and don’t compromise evidence just to get it out.”

A sea of nodding blue paper heads dispersed around the room and set about collecting anything and everything that might be useful—wood, brass hinges, plaster, bed springs. All items were individually double-wrapped into nylon bags to preserve any traces of accelerant.