The young man lay face up on the floor, eyes closed, already blue hands resting peacefully across his bare midriff. Brilliant, almost white hair rose from his forehead in a preened wave, and his clothes were contemporary, light jeans with a black and white belt, matching canvas trainers. As before, a small pile of clothing lay crumpled nearby, a thick gingham shirt. As their witness had said, there was no obvious sign of assault or injury: the young man might indeed have been sleeping, had it not been for the prominent stains soaking the crotch of his trousers. And the smell.

Except without prior knowledge of the body upon entering the property, the odour at this early stage after death might have been explained by simple insanitation, such were conditions inside the house, while the skin discoloration and staining, obvious now beneath the glare of generator-powered lights, wouldn’t have been so easily determined in the tunnel vision of torchlight. She shivered, imagining what it must have been like to find this young man here; catching a glimpse of that eerily still face in the beam.

But her contemplation was cut short as another white overall, this time cladding the Home Office pathologist, appeared through a door in the adjacent wall.

‘Detectives.’ Gerald Pritchard stepped carefully past his subordinates to join her and Frank, greeting them with curt nods.

Hawkins felt Frank bristle, glad to note that as usual, Pritchard didn’t seem to notice. Either he was ignorant of the fact his very presence wound the DI up, or he didn’t care. Granted, Hawkins’ obstinate northern colleague didn’t warm to many people, herself included, but he reserved particular aversion for the geriatrically dressed pathologist. Whatever the reason, Pritchard ignored the DI’s brusque exhalation and turned to admire the scene. ‘A rare luxury to have all the investigative elements in place so quickly post-mortem, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Whatever floats your boat, Gerry.’ Hawkins moved on before small talk could take hold, directing attention towards the victim. ‘So this is recent?’

‘Reasonably,’ Pritchard said. ‘Our subject was alive until approximately ten hours ago. That rather pungent malodour is the still-drying contents of his bowel, which suggests he had lunch shortly before meeting his fate somewhere around three o’clock yesterday afternoon.’ He jerked his head towards the kitchen. ‘Which, judging from the lack of food waste anywhere in the property, I’d suggest he ate elsewhere.’

Hawkins took advantage of a gap in foot traffic to kneel beside the body, pointing at two patches of slight discoloration on the upper chest. ‘Are these what I think they are?’

‘Yes.’ Pritchard mimed the use of twin paddles with a jolt. ‘I’m afraid your friend with the defibrillator has returned.’

‘Magnificent.’ She looked around, speaking mainly to herself. ‘Another abandoned property, another young male victim, but only one of them this time. Why?’