‘It’s a shame to see these old buildings with so much history butchered and made into offices, flats and . . .’ Quinn gestures to the immense ground-floor coffee shop, ‘ . . . a Starbucks.’

‘That’s progress for you.’

The porter is a red-faced middle-aged man called Bell, who reluctantly escorts them to the third-floor apartment. He hesitates before unlocking the door. ‘I should really speak to Mr Faulkner before allowing you inside,’ he says.

‘Unless you’ve been living in a bubble, Mr Faulkner has been missing for some time now,’ says Quinn.

‘I know but . . . perhaps I should call his father instead.’

Quinn sighs impatiently. ‘That’s a crackin’ idea. Perhaps we can ask for a vote in the Commons while we’re at it.’

The man flinches at Quinn’s tone. ‘I’m only looking after my client’s property.’

‘How many bedrooms are in your client’s apartment?’ asks Archer.

‘Two. En suite and the highest of specs they are, too.’

Archer smiles. ‘And does Mr Faulkner have a cleaner?’

‘We have contractors who come in once a week.’

‘When was the last time it was cleaned?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bell. We can take it from here,’ says Archer.

The porter unlocks the door. ‘I must insist that you treat the property with respect and don’t break anything.’

‘Aye, we’ll do our best. You wait outside,’ says Quinn, ‘we’ll call you if we need anything.’ Quinn shuts the door behind him. ‘Officious Bell end.’

Faulkner’s apartment is a double-aspect, bright and airy open-plan living space with a glossy fitted kitchen and even glossier wooden floorboards. It has a flowery, freshly cleaned smell and the look of a showroom flat. Archer notices there are no stand-out art pieces anywhere; the walls are mostly decorated with art deco-style mirrors, wall lamps and the occasional photograph of Faulkner with someone famous.

‘I can take the bedrooms,’ says Archer, pulling on a pair of protective gloves.

‘I’ll make a start here.’

Archer enters one of the bedrooms and searches carefully through the drawers, bedside cabinets and wardrobe. They contain next to nothing, which makes her think this must be the spare room. The en suite yields no results either and she heads into the main bedroom.

‘How’s it going?’ she calls to Quinn.

‘Nothing so far. How about you?’

‘Same.’

The next bedroom is larger in size and has a more lived-in feel. There are books on the bedside cabinet, a large television set and through the en-suite doorway she sees neatly organised male toiletries sitting on a shelf above the sink. Her eyes are drawn to the mirror above it. In the reflection she sees something hanging on the hook behind the bathroom door. She swallows. One side of a pale, expressionless face looks back at her. She hurries inside the bathroom and lifts it from the hook. It’s a rubber mask. Daubed around one of the eyes is a bleeding ‘@’ symbol.