The room was empty, save for the victim. And the flesh-eating flies swarming around what was left of him. The victim’s head was slumped over the back of a wooden chair, mouth and eyes wide open. His skin was yellow and withered. A reaction to the poison, Rowlinson had been told, but he now understood a comment one of the SOCO team had made a short while ago – ‘Poor bastard looks like someone sucked his soul clean out.’

He was naked and his arms were covered with deep lacerations, but that was nothing compared to his chest. The flesh was hanging off, exposing a crimson network of muscle and tissue. There were similar wounds on the lower half but everything was so saturated in blood, it was hard to make out which parts of him remained intact and which didn’t.

‘Jesus,’ a voice behind Rowlinson gasped.

He turned to find Hardwick in the entrance, hand over his mouth.

‘What the hell have we got here, guv?’

DS Hardwick was a foot shorter than his superior but still managed to fill the little cabin with his portly frame. He was a city boy with a swaggering gait, but a decent copper despite his lack of charm.

‘The damage is self-inflicted,’ Rowlinson said quietly.

‘He tore his own skin off, boss?’

Rowlinson peered more closely. Ptyalism – excretion of foamy saliva, but to such an extent that the victim had been unable to control it by swallowing alone. At some point, he had introduced his fist into his mouth in order to induce vomiting but had ended up biting down so hard that he had almost taken his hand clean off.

‘The alkaloid caused unimaginable pain for many hours. To combat it, the victim attempted to fillet himself.’

‘Why?’

‘To get at his heart, Hardwick. It was the only way to end the pain.’

*

Three hours earlier, Sir Philip Wren had been sitting in the study of his Kent home, his belly full of port and chicken, and his mind full of gushing phrases to use during his acceptance speech for an OBE. He had received the phone call only yesterday in the strictest confidence – the Honours Committee had resolved to acknowledge the incumbent Attorney General’s services to the legal profession and Her Majesty’s Government in the New Year’s Honours list. Finally, a lifetime’s commitment to public service was to be recognised and Wren had spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of euphoria.

But his jubilation had been short-lived and he was now in south Wales, cold and anxious, and with a sharp pain in his head.

The scene was as he had expected – a glade swarming with a forensic team. Blue flashing lights. A feeling of uncertainty hanging in the air. And in the centre, a little wooden cabin with hearts carved above the door.

It’s happening again.