He remained in there, so drenched with the stench of rotting dog-flesh that he doubted he’d ever be able to get it out of his clothes, and yet so horrified by what had just happened that he really didn’t want to leave. It was a couple of minutes, at least, before he was able to turn and make his way outside, moving like a man intoxicated, barely able to put one foot in front of another. He swayed through the entrance, still nauseated, and even in fresher air found himself teetering, sweat streaming down his body. He staggered on another two dozen yards before jerking back to reality, wondering where the rats might be and if they could be slinking up again.

There was no sign of them when he glanced around, but that didn’t satisfy him. He swung his Maglite wildly, trying to cover every inch of ground, turning in drunken, feverish circles. It was only on the fourth revolution that he saw something that shouldn’t be there.

A girl’s pretty face, close up to his own. Rendered white in the torchlight. Etched with sadistic glee. Pink lips drawn back on feral teeth.

Peabody’s shout came out a shocked, unintelligible croak.

It was the last sound he made before a hefty blow smashed into the back of his skull.

‘They don’t make coppers like they used to.’ Ivana toed the unconscious body. ‘Scared of a few rats.’

Alyssa emptied the stone out of the sock. ‘It was the dummy that did it. Totally threw him off his guard.’

‘Soft bastards. When Dad was a lad, they were all ex-Paras fresh from Northern Ireland. They’d give you a good hiding just for gobbing on the pavement.’

‘Think we were in time?’ Alyssa wondered, nodding at the tent.

‘That thing looks second-hand to me. There’s no sign the real CSI mob have been here yet.’ Ivana hefted forward two of the four six-gallon petrol canisters. They were so bulky and full that when they touched each other, they clattered loudly. ‘I mean, how much have they found out? I reckon they’ve just stumbled across this site. They’re probably not sure what it means, or if it means anything. So they stuck a single sentry on it.’

‘Poor sod, eh?’ Alyssa grabbed the other two canisters. ‘Had no idea what he was getting into.’

‘We’ll worry about him later.’

Alyssa unscrewed one of the metal caps and tipped fuel over the walls of the forensics tent, walking around it so that she got every side. When she’d done that, they both took their canisters inside, and tilted them over the pit itself, rivers of petrol glugging out, glistening their way down into the ossuary below, drenching the twisted, tangled carcasses.