The doctor pulls the sheet gently back over the cadaver before unfolding the sheets covering the three homeless men and exposing their bruised necks.

‘Asphyxiation by choking. Hands, judging by the bruises.’

‘Would it be possible to measure the length of the handprints to get an estimate of the killer’s height?’ asks Archer.

‘I have done just that. The killer’s hands are approximately 8.5 inches long. He could therefore be anywhere around six feet.’

‘What is the likelihood of finding any DNA on the bodies, considering they have been pickled?’ asks Quinn.

‘Unlikely. The formaldehyde in the cabinets would have killed any traces.’

‘Great. A killer that can effectively cover his tracks.’

Doctor Kapur arches his eyebrows and smiles. ‘Not necessarily.’

Archer regards him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I did find something very interesting.’

Archer feels her pulse quickening.

Kapur slides his hand under Stan Buxton’s sheet and takes out his pale left arm. Pointing to the dead man’s dirty fingernails he says, ‘I found a strand of blond hair underneath.’ He places the arm back under the sheet and walks to Noel Tipping’s corpse, reveals his right hand and points to the fingernails. ‘I found a similar hair here.’ Kapur moves to the top of Billy Perrin’s table. ‘I found three strands of blond hair in this unfortunate’s mouth.’

‘I’d like them sent for analysis,’ says Archer.

‘It has already been arranged, however, the formaldehyde may have compromised the quality of that evidence.’

‘We can but hope. Thank you, Doctor Kapur. You’ve been very helpful.’

Chapter 8

8

MEGAN BURCHILL IS LOST IN the world of her literary heroine, Cassandra Hotchkiss. Max, Cassandra’s impossibly rich lover, and captain of all things kinky, has just stripped her naked, blindfolded her with Chanel-scented vintage crushed velvet and tied her wrists and ankles to the antique oak bedposts with cherry-red rope made from the finest silk. He is just about to torture her ‘regions’ with a frozen peacock feather he has been storing in his Fisher & Paykel stainless-steel freezer.

Megan feels her neck flushing at the thought.

An arm stretches across her suddenly, nudging her e-reader closer to her chin.

‘Do excuse me,’ says the stranger sitting next to her.

She tuts a disapproval and frowns at the wide hand as it wipes the condensation from the bus window. The number 12 Routemaster edges its way slowly around the perimeter of Trafalgar Square, pulling over at the stop opposite The Connection at St Martin’s Place.

Megan doesn’t want to look but cannot help herself. She feels a chill shiver down her spine as she glances across at the spot where the corpses of the three homeless men were left in glass cabinets. The bodies and cabinets are no longer there, the forensics tents and men in white masks and overalls have gone and people walk by as if it never happened, yet for Megan that space has retained a spooky, desolate feel to it.