He had been told that the detective in charge, Rowlinson, was competent. He had no doubt that this was true, but a local detective couldn’t possibly keep this case. Not if Wren’s fears were realised. He found Rowlinson standing with another man by the cabin door, looking at him with the same expression of uneasiness as all the detectives he had seen over the years. He didn’t blame them. If he could have it any other way, he would leave them to get on with their job – but he couldn’t. Not this time.

He walked across the glade, conscious of the questioning eyes following him.

‘Philip Wren.’ He offered his hand and received a firm grip in response.

‘DCI Rowlinson. We weren’t expecting the Attorney General, sir. Is there a jurisdictional issue I should be –’

‘Not at all. No one wants to tread on any toes here, Chief Inspector. Your authority is not in question.’

It was a lie. There was a task force already in place to take over the investigation, a sub-division of the National Domestic Extremist Unit. A covert, specialist Met unit.

‘Then I don’t see –’

‘May I see the body, DCI Rowlinson?’

Rowlinson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The Attorney General had arrived in a Jaguar XJ accompanied by a small company of dark-suited men. These men had gathered the bewildered SOCO team together and were issuing them with confidentiality agreements to sign. After a further moment’s hesitation, Rowlinson stood aside.

Wren inhaled the cold air greedily before stepping inside the log cabin. His stomach churned. He didn’t want to see that chicken again.

Rowlinson stood in the doorway watching him curiously, hands wedged in his pockets.

He cleared his throat.

‘The poison was administered through a catheter in his wrist, probably while he was unconscious. The poison takes over the whole body, arrests every single nerve. The pain is excruciating, but the brain is too overloaded to shut down. The sensation apparently lasts for hours, during which, as you can see, the victim mutilated himself.’

‘Is there anything in his mouth, Chief Inspector?’

Rowlinson faltered. ‘What?’

Wren felt a lump in his throat, something restricting his airway. ‘His mouth, Chief Inspector. Is there anything in his mouth?’

Rowlinson looked behind him, as if he thought it might be a test, before taking two strides across the floorboards to within touching distance of the victim. The foam around the victim’s gaping mouth had begun to congeal but some of the froth dripped down the side of his face like egg white. Wren watched as Rowlinson peered in.

‘There’s nothing there.’ Rowlinson straightened up.

‘Check again.’

Rowlinson bent over the body again and looked closer. Wren balled his hands into fists. Perhaps Rowlinson was right. Perhaps there was nothing there.

‘Hang on,’ Rowlinson said, digging a pen and a pair of blue plastic gloves out of his pocket. ‘There is something . . .’