ARCHER AND QUINN RETURN TO Charing Cross and process the evidence from Faulkner’s apartment. They meet with Klara and begin ramping up their efforts to find him. Settling in for a long night, they make calls, search databases and trawl meticulously through all the reports and files to do with the case, and with Falkner.

It’s almost 3 a.m. when the call comes through.

‘The victim is Mike Hamilton,’ says PC Neha Rei.

‘The reporter?’ asks Archer.

‘The very one. The killer uploaded the video of his murder to Hamilton’s social media.’

Klara fires up a browser and opens Hamilton’s Facebook page. She narrows in on the recording and watches the sequence of events with a terrified Hamilton apologising to the world as his fingers are being snapped off by secateurs. Archer turns away, unable to watch the entire video.

‘The recording was made at his flat. We’re here now.’

‘Thanks, Neha. We’re on our way.’

‘I’ve started the process to have it taken down,’ says Klara. ‘Might take some time. It’s late and there are copies floating around other accounts, including dozens of pictures on Hamilton’s Twitter and Instagram.’

‘All posted tonight?’

Klara scans the pictures. ‘They all seem to have today’s date.’

‘See what you can do and good luck. Call me if you need anything.’

Archer gets into the back of the car. Quinn sits up front. Archer looks through the pictures on her phone.

Quinn says, ‘We have a team of uniforms at the scene now. One is talking to the landlord, a Mr Bahadir, who says Hamilton arrived home alone around four o’clock today. Uniform have done a door-to-door but no one saw or heard anything, apparently.’

In ten minutes, they are in Hackney and Archer sees the flashing blue lights of police cars parked outside what looks like a kebab shop called AbraKEBABra.

‘Whoever came up with that name deserves a rosette,’ says Quinn.

The cold night air pinches Archer’s skin as she removes her coat. She gets dressed in her forensic suit and glances up and down the road. It’s a typical working-class London high street with a grubby-looking pub, a betting shop, charity stores, an all-night grocery store and the kebab shop, above which Hamilton lived.

They ascend the narrow staircase where there is a strong lingering smell of kebab meat and enter the small flat. The smell seems to follow them inside. On the kitchen worktop she sees five crushed beer cans. Another sits on the floor by the sofa.

‘Hamilton liked his beer,’ says Quinn.

They make their way through to the bedroom, where a medic is examining the body. The floor is littered with unwashed clothes and bloody severed fingers.

Hamilton lies dead on his bed, his mouth gagged, his face contorted.

‘His heart gave out in the end. The stress of the pain, I reckon,’ says the medic.