Burkin sniffed. “Jesus, this place smells like an abattoir.” He turned to stare at the wall where Marlow’s chains and torture instruments hung, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Two men were crouched near the wall, prodding at a small drain with sticks. Above the drain, where a single tap was fitted, a makeshift shower had been rigged up, with a plastic shampoo spray and a plastic curtain, spotted with black mold and streaked with blood. Beside it a dish contained soap, wire brushes and a plastic nail brush.

“This is caked in blood, we’ll need swabs of it all,” one of the men was saying. “Ugh, the drain’s clogged with it, and this looks like skin . . .” He covered his face. “Jesus, the stench!” he mumbled, retching.

Burkin had found a handbag. He handled it carefully, wearing disposable plastic gloves. Inside was a wallet; he flipped it open.

“It’s Karen Howard’s!”

More arc-lights came on, bathing the Rover in a bright pool of light. The SOCO was holding a pair of tweezers up and peering at the tiny item they held.

“The carpet’s been scrubbed, smells of cleaning fluid, and it’s damp. What’s this? Looks like a tiny gold screw.” He dropped it into the bag his assistant held open for him and something else caught his attention. “Was your girl blond?” he called over to Burkin and Jones as he carefully stashed a single blond hair into a bag.

Burkin was examining a jacket, peering at it through the plastic bag. “I got one of these jackets from his flat, he must have two sets of clothes . . . See his shoes, did you take his shoes from the flat?”

DC Jones wasn’t ready for it, couldn’t understand how it happened, but one moment he was doing his job, sorting through the gear, and the next he burst into tears. He stood there, unable to control his sobs, almost in surprise.

Burkin put an arm around his shoulder. “Go an’ grab a coffee, a few of the others might feel like one, OK?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I dunno what made me get like this . . .”

Peering into the cabinet again, Burkin replied, “We all go through it, Dave. I think it’s just natural, a release . . . Mine’s black, no sugar.”

Jones threaded his way across the duckboards, mindful of the plastic sheeting. He had to turn back because he couldn’t remember if it was four black and six white or the other way round.

The silent shadows of the men loomed on the walls where hideous splashes of blood, and worse, had dried. The greenish glow of the fluorescent lights and the brightness of the arc-lights did nothing to lift the dank darkness, the stench, the horror. This was where that sweet girl was brought; he could only imagine her terror, only imagine it.