The unidentified overall stood, turning away from the bodies to reveal its occupier’s face.

‘Cavalry at last.’ Gerald Pritchard crossed the short distance to meet them at the door, addressing Hawkins. ‘I trust you’re well, Detective?’

‘Fine, thanks.’ She dodged further civilities. Rumours had been circulating Becke House that the Home Office pathologist had recently remarried, mere months after his ailing wife had passed away, to a Thai woman twenty-five years his junior, yet it remained to be seen if this would temper his infamously lecherous approach to female colleagues.

She nodded past his shoulder. ‘Looks interesting.’

‘Doesn’t it just.’ Pritchard glanced back at the corpses, his nasal voice exaggerated by the sprung nose clip he reserved for the most pungent crime scenes. ‘A rare treat, you might say.’

Hawkins exchanged nauseated looks with Amala, asking as Pritchard turned back, ‘So what do we know?’

The pathologist rubbed at his chin with the back of a gloved hand. ‘Three dead males, all early to mid-twenties, at a loose estimate. Advanced pupae development and decomposition, hence the patently high levels of putrescine and cadaverine, and the accompanying malodour, of course.’ His head cocked in consideration. ‘They’ve probably been here ten days or so, though I’ll be able to speculate more accurately once I get them back to the lab. We minimize physical interference in such cases, you understand, because the bodies will disintegrate if handled. The cutis tends to slide off like rice pudding skin—’

‘So less than two weeks in situ,’ Hawkins interrupted before he got any more graphic. ‘Were any of them living here?’

I’d say not.’ Pritchard blinked slowly. ‘Aside from the discarded clothing, there’s a complete lack of personal effects elsewhere in the flat, and no food in the kitchen that isn’t at least six months past its best. We’ll confirm once samples from the other rooms have been analysed, but I think our protagonists arrived here in good health, shortly before meeting their ends. Speaking of which …’ He wandered over and collected a few items from near the piles of clothing, returning to hold them out towards the detectives.

Three mobile phones, two wallets and a bank card.

Hawkins quickly checked the phones – all locked. She put each one in a separate evidence bag, while Amala took the card. ‘J. Kowalski. Sounds Eastern European.’

Pritchard nodded. ‘Aside from a small amount of cash, it’s all we have for that one.’

Hawkins chose the first wallet, a practical black fabric fold-over, either recently cleaned out, or the property of someone who thought there was a place for everything. Tucked in a side pocket she found a publishing house security pass for a freelance journalist named Colin Wilson.

Pritchard produced five identical, expensively finished business cards from the remaining tan leather wallet. All were emblazoned Director, Business Solutions, and the accompanying driver’s licence showed matching details for a William Tennent.