He had no lock picks with him, but the Sig dug comfortably into the small of his back. He edged his way over to the rear part-glazed door that, he guessed, went into the kitchen. He reached up and tried the round doorknob, withdrawing the silenced Sig with his other hand and holding it by his side. His senses were alive to all the sights and sounds around him. The faint murmur of the TV from within competed with a distant barking somewhere outside.

The doorknob turned and the door began to give slightly. Keeping his body to the side of the door, he slowly inched it open, peering through the crack as it widened. A messy kitchen emerged in the half-light from the living room, the TV getting louder with excitable commentary. Tom tuned out the noise, his ears and senses searching for any other presence within the flat.

Once the door was sufficiently ajar, Tom inched his way into the kitchen, his feet silent on the linoleum floor, the Sig pressed tight to his thigh.

A metallic smell assaulted his nose, a copper-like stench familiar to every police officer. Emboldened, Tom strode through the kitchen, the Sig in both hands in a close-quarter battle-grip, still treading lightly but quickly as the dread began to course through his body. He moved to the threshold leading to the living room and entered at speed, the Sig stretched out in front of him. As always, time slowed as he took in the scene before him. First priority: clearing the rest of the room for any other occupants. There were none. He then turned his attention to the chair.

Ivan was sprawled in the cracked and ancient armchair, his arms either side of the armrests, his feet splayed out in front of him. Blood covered the front of his white-and-blue Bosnia and Herzegovina football shirt like a gory bib. His eyes were half-open but no light shone from behind them. A long, ragged incision stretched across his neck, almost from ear to ear, the faint white glint of his windpipe visible in amongst the gore. The nature of the wound was not clean but had clearly been hacked at until he had choked to death or bled out. Once the carotid artery had been severed, as the enormous puddle of blood indicated it had, death would have been only moments away.

Tucking the Sig back in his waistband, Tom approached Ivan and touched his forehead: it was still warm. There was no pulse point to feel in his neck: it had been destroyed by the inexpert hacking of the killer.

He felt nothing other than a familiar cold, hard rage. The smell of the blood assailed his nostrils, added to by the loss of bowel control that Ivan had clearly experienced in his final moments. Tom swallowed bitterly, fighting to stop the bile rising in his throat.