Hawkins checked her watch and rang the bell, hoping through the fug of tiredness that her unplanned lie-in hadn’t allowed her intended host to slip out to work while she fought late rush-hour traffic. The SOCO, who had subsequently introduced himself as Mark, had dated Julia Arnold briefly the previous year, until fundamental dissimilarities overcame the initial rush of attraction. This had been Julia’s address at that time, but the pair hadn’t made contact in eight months, so there was no guarantee she hadn’t moved on.

The answer came as the sound of footsteps reached Hawkins’ side of the door, before a couple of locks ground open, and the door swung inwards on the chain.

A sliver of young woman appeared in the gap. ‘Yes?’

‘Julia Arnold?’

‘Who are you?’

‘DCI Hawkins, Metropolitan Police.’ She didn’t bother with her warrant card, too busy trying to decide if what she could see of the flat’s occupant matched her colleague’s description. ‘Do you know a Mark Dyer?’

There was a pause, then the younger woman frowned. ‘Is he OK?’

Hello, Julia.

‘He’s fine.’ Hawkins adopted a friendlier tone. ‘We’re working together on a case, actually. Mark thought you might know what this means.’ She held up her mobile, showing a photograph of the symbol from the latest murder scene to Julia’s one visible eye, which narrowed as the woman studied the image.

The door closed.

Hawkins blinked, not sure what she had done to cause such a reaction. Suspicion had just started to rear when a muted rattle preceded a scrape, and the door swung fully open.

Julia stood inside, intrigue now clear on her face.

‘Do you want to come in?’

Hawkins stopped just inside the flat’s crowded lounge, almost baulking at the scent-congested air, reacting before she could help herself. ‘Wow.’

The room that opened off the short hallway was a good fifteen feet by ten, but it felt like less than half of that, thanks to the cocoon of artefacts adorning every available surface. Two basic wooden shelving units were propped drunkenly against the far wall, both crammed with pictures and carvings. In front of them, a two-piece chair and sofa set huddled among a forest of low tables and drums, every one draped with heavy blankets or throws, bright reds running through browns into swirling yellows and greens.

The walls were coated, too. Box-frames filled with pressed flowers jostled for space with engraved masks and chiselled effigies. Badly mounted shelves littered every remaining gap. Anything with a horizontal plane was packed with meticulously arranged stones, ceramics and beads. Even the ceiling bore an inverted forest of hanging relics, chimes and winding branches plaited with feathers and cords. Vigorous incense floated above the moist scent of nature, the whole thing at odds with the magnolia paint that meant the place was probably rented.

Who’d be a landlord?