He tried the key in the lock. Opened the door. And stepped into a dank corridor that smelled like mouldy bread.

The house was in a much worse state than the first one they’d tried – a bungalow with a DIY jungle gym out the front. No wonder they’d had trouble selling it.

A staircase led almost straight up, ladder-style to a small landing, but down here there was a bathroom clarted in rust and mould, the two empty front rooms, and a tiny kitchen. Half the units were missing their doors, the other half had them hanging off. Big black stains spread across the ceiling.

Talk about a fixer-upper.

There was another crunch, then more ridiculous pseudo-swearing, and finally Sim’s face appeared at the kitchen window, cheeks flushed, mouth set into a hard line, a strand of sticky willy clinging to the brim of her bowler like a length of furry string.

Logan hauled open the back door and let her in.

She was covered in bits of greenery, sticky geordies all up her trousers, bits of bracken, green stains on her knees and elbows, scarlet scratches on the back of her hands and one cheek. She scowled at him. ‘Not one word.’

The corners of his mouth twitched, but he got it under control. ‘I’ve done downstairs. No sign of anyone.’

Back to the front hall.

The stairs creaked as they climbed, the balustrade wobbling every time it was touched. There was no way Anthony Chung and Agnes Garfield would have holed up here. Not with so many other, cleaner, less . . . diseasy properties to choose from.

At the top of the stairs was a small landing with a row of knee-high cupboards built into the angle of the roof, just visible in the gloom of a filthy Velux window. Two doors led off into what had to be attic bedrooms.

Sim stopped on the top step. ‘Can you smell something? ’

Logan stood where he was, sniffing. Whatever it was, it was sweet: floral. Not heavy enough to be cloying, but completely out of place in a tiny house that was rotting away inside.

He put one gloved hand on the doorknob to the first bedroom, turned, and let it swing open. Inside, a single bed sat against the back wall, the plaster on the coombed ceilings disintegrating, showing the lathe beneath.

Door number two. . . The knob turned, but the door stuck. He pushed harder and a ripping noise – like two bits of Velcro being separated – came from around the door frame. Duct tape.

And then the smell fell out of the room on top of them, curdling its way into Logan’s throat and lungs, filling his nose with the stench of spoiled meat. His throat constricted, stomach lurching. ‘Oh Jesus. . .’