She pauses on the threshold and reaches into a pouch on her belt. When she pulls out a pair of thin blue gloves and tugs them over her hands, snapping them into place at the wrist, then I know just how serious this is.

The gloved officer steps into the tiny flat. That radio is still playing – God knows how long it’s been on like that. I step into the flat as well, and I can feel the two bailiffs crowding behind me. I can just about see past the police officer’s shoulder and the first thing that stands out is all the dust and cobwebs. Nothing has been cleaned in here for … what? Months? The whole place is covered with dead flies; a thousand tiny bodies, a thousand tiny wings. And the smell is like nothing I’ve ever smelt before, heavy, musty, cloying and bitter at the same time, like breathing in wet sand, as if the air in here has swollen into itself. I can see through the arch into the kitchen from here and there’s a collection of pretty cups hanging from hooks under the cabinet, pans by the hob, and a little plaque propped against the wall that reads Family Is The Dearest Thing. There’s a chest of drawers in the corner of the living room – or bedroom, whichever you want to call it – with a mirror on top coated in dust.

When the two officers fan out in front of me, I notice the table. The fold-out table set up against the far wall. It is set for three with plates, cutlery, glasses and a bottle of wine, all thickly dusted as well. Dead flowers in a vase, grey drooping stems and shrivelled brown blooms, and even more dead flies scattering the table surface, dozens of them. I step further into the flat – the five of us now are taking up so much of the space – and that is when I see her.

I clap my hand to my mouth. My whole stomach lifts up on itself, pushing against my lungs to eject everything inside. Fighting the urge to be sick, I clench both hands against my mouth now, trying not to breathe in another molecule of that air – that smell – now I know what it is. My whole body feels as if it is flipping upwards in shock and my mind jerks and jerks, trying to free itself of what I’ve seen. I stagger sideways, trying to turn away, and instead bumping straight into the large bailiff behind me, caught by his shoulder and brought to a halt. In the press of bodies I can’t escape, I can only stand there, gagging myself with my own hands as the male police officer steps past me, into the tiny little kitchen area, and clicks the radio off.