The Kennedy Estate was one of those places where the police went in pairs, where, in his less politically correct moments, Patrick thought the Jeremy Kyle Show must hold their castings. A snakepit, where the most poisonous and dangerous members of society slithered, but also a sad place, where elderly residents barricaded themselves away, where children were born not with a silver spoon but its opposite: rusty, burnt, smack-stained. Hope didn’t come to die among these ugly high-rises and piss-stinking underpasses, because hope had never dared venture here.

‘JFK would be so proud they named this shithole after him,’ Carmella commented as they drew up outside a dark building on the edge of the estate.

They got out of the car and looked up at the building. Most of the windows were boarded up. Not a single light shone in the remaining flats. It was, it seemed, abandoned, ready for demolition, or perhaps the council would wait for nature to do its work, let it crumble, or leave it for future civilisations to marvel at. In the meantime, it provided a haven for squatters.

‘Is it always this quiet around here?’ Carmella asked.

Patrick looked about. ‘It does seem unusually tranquil.’

From within a nearby tower block, a dog howled and a man shouted for it to shut the fuck up.

Carmella said, ‘That’s the word I would have used. Tranquil. Reminds me a little of the place Jenny and I went on honeymoon.’ She sighed.

‘Most people who live here are too afraid to come out after dark.’ He lifted the boot and took out a sturdy torch. If he was an American cop he would have a gun, but he had no weapons with him at all. Still, the intention here was to investigate, that was all. The first sign of danger and he would call for back-up, although this wasn’t remotely reassuring – it only took a second for a finger to pull a trigger, or a hand to plunge a knife . . . ‘Stay close behind me.’

The front door of the building collapsed from its hinges when he pulled it, almost landing on his foot.

‘That was the first booby trap.’

They went inside and were instantly hit by the stench of shit and rot. Patrick tried the light switch. Of course, it didn’t work. They paused in the stairwell next to the lift, the doors of which stood open, revealing several bags of stinking rubbish.

He gestured for Carmella to follow him up the stairs, the torchlight bouncing off the graffiti-defaced walls. Lots of pictures of penises. Big ones, small ones, hairy ones, spurting ones. Mostly big, hairy, spurting ones. It was enough to give a man a complex.

‘This place smells worse than Chris Davis’s breath,’ Carmella whispered.

‘It smells like a Glastonbury toilet.’