‘Can’t argue there.’ Hawkins switched to breathing through her mouth as they reached the cordon. Even outside, the rancid stench of decaying flesh was overpowering, like fermenting meat sprayed with cheap, sickly perfume, and left out in the sun. Her stomach gave a cautionary lurch.

They showed warrant cards, suited up, and went in. Hawkins paused briefly to inspect the door frame which carried apparently recent scars from a sizeable crowbar. She raised an elbow, estimating that whoever created the damage was two to four inches taller than her: unhelpfully meaning they were the height of the average man. She turned her attention to the poky hallway. The cramped space had claustrophobically low ceilings, ill-matched colours, and the efficient underlying buzz of a professional investigation team at work. But no evidence of the offending tool.

She turned to find Amala watching her and nodded. The sergeant let one of the SOCOs pass them in the narrow corridor before heading for the rear of the property. Hawkins followed, inspecting the place as they went.

Like its neighbours, the flat clearly hadn’t received any attention for years. The mottled blue carpet crunched underfoot, while huge discoloured stains on the ceiling suggested that upstairs’ plumbing also needed work. They passed a kitchen crammed into a medium-sized cupboard, with a burnt-out toaster and tiles smeared in a brown substance Hawkins decided not to investigate. A poky bedroom came next, filthy blankets and a duvet shoved into the rear corner, everything being slowly conquered by damp, suggesting that no one had lived here in the recent past.

Amala moved straight ahead into an unfurnished lounge, where the odour’s intensity kicked again, going from playful assault to brick-in-the-face.

Hawkins swallowed the small shot of bile that rose in her throat.

In front of her, Amala slid sideways into the room, her romper suit rasping quietly against the textured wallpaper, allowing Hawkins to step fully inside.

Dull winter sunlight drifted aimlessly through the open patio doors and cheap curtains on to dreary, part-papered walls. Flies criss-crossed the ceiling, their expired predecessors littering the patchy carpet below. The stagnant air seemed to drag the walls even closer.

Four white-overalled figures crouched in the centre of the room, temporarily blocking Hawkins’ view of the main attraction. Camera flashes identified one as the forensic photographer, while swabs and sample bags in the hands of two others denoted crime scene technicians.

Seconds later the formation broke, dispersing as if theatrically choreographed to reveal the grim reason for everyone’s presence.

Three bloated male bodies lay on their backs in the middle of the floor. Each wore jeans and trainers. A neat line, arms by sides, naked from the waist up. Blue-black skin eaten away in places, burst or blistering in others. Dark patches of escaped fluids formed a dirty halo around each man. Three neat piles of clothing were lined up against one wall.