‘Maybe he had help to handle three targets,’ Frank offered. ‘Perhaps that help wasn’t around yesterday.’

‘Maybe.’ Hawkins scanned the room, still crouched beside the body. ‘But something about the whole arrangement still doesn’t fit. We know this victim came here of his own volition, which tallies with what we know of the others. But did he arrive expecting to deal drugs?’

Pritchard cleared his throat. ‘That’s possible, of course, but again there’s no evidence of narcotics abuse on the victim’s part. No obvious skin degradation, no needle marks, not even traces of loose tobacco in his pockets. I realize not every drug runner uses, but in my experience, where there’s supply, there’s generally habit.’

Hawkins shook her head, still unable to connect the dots convincingly in her head. For a moment, no one spoke over the rustling dance of the SOCOs, and her gaze returned to the naked torso at their feet, scouring its surface inch by inch. The kid was in average physical condition, slim but not athletic, devoid of scars or tattoos.

Barren of immediate clues.

She was about to stand, keen to straighten aching knees, when something caught her attention. She leaned closer.

Frank crouched beside her, clearly picking up on her intuition. ‘What is it?’

‘Look.’ Hawkins levelled a gloved finger at the floor beneath the dead man’s right shoulder. ‘There’s fresh scratching here.’

He studied the mark briefly before pointing at the tracks running from the victim’s feet to the dining set in the corner. ‘That’s where they dragged the table away.’

‘No.’ She drew in the air. ‘It doesn’t line up, and it’s finer, too.’ She looked up at Pritchard. ‘Can we move the body?’

‘Just a moment.’ The pathologist went to the kitchen door, called to an unseen colleague outside. ‘Are we done with shots of the corpse in situ?’

There was a short pause before the affirmative yell came back, and Pritchard summoned further assistance before rejoining them. ‘Would you mind stepping aside?’

Both detectives did as he asked, retreating to the adjacent doorway as three more white overalls entered through the kitchen. The two burliest arrivals unzipped a dark blue body bag, and with the aid of nothing more than the odd muted count, expertly eased the rigor-mortised corpse inside, pausing occasionally for the third newcomer to record the entire process on a large digital camera. Hawkins recognized the slim photographer as Otis Pring, a recent addition to the forensic team, but one with whom the experienced Pritchard now worked whenever he had the choice. She craned her neck, desperate for a glimpse of the floor, irritated to find her view consistently blocked by the crowd.

At last the burly brothers heaved the body bag out of the room, leaving only the pathologist and the photographer between Hawkins and what she was waiting to see.

Pring remarked, ‘Well, that’s a new one.’