French hesitated. He didn’t actually have the court order on him. The DC from Rayleigh was supposed to bring it with him. And most suspects didn’t ask. They were usually too shocked to remember their rights.

But then Lovell surprised him again.

“Come in, I suppose.” He stood back to let French enter. “Remind me, what do you think I’ve done?”

The house reeked of lavender and French coughed, its floral scent catching at the back of his throat. Along with the underbelly of something thicker, uglier. The residue of the rotting-meat smell that had prompted him to apply for a warrant, but it was faded, like an old memory.

French ignored him. “Can I have a look around?” he said, although it was a perfunctory question. He was already opening doors and cupboards.

Lovell’s house was neglected and unloved. Motes of dancing dust were illuminated by the sun. The dirty shadow of boot prints was visible across the hall rug, as if no one ever bothered to sweep up. Piles of cat hair and dried mud lifted gently as the air moved with unexpected activity. A patch of something unidentifiable marked the carpet on the stairs.

“Ever heard of cleaning, mate?”

“My wife used to do it.”

French muttered under his breath, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Lovell’s eyes narrowed. He was wearing a clean white shirt and jacket with a gold pin that was vaguely familiar on his lapel.

In the kitchen, the back door was open. A pallet truck lined with plywood was on the patio, a blanket on the floor. French could see a garage, and through the open door, a large chest freezer. His fingers tapped against his leg, nervous energy thrumming through his veins.

He would take a closer look outside when he had finished in the house.

The rotting-meat smell was stronger upstairs, but it had not reached the gagging stage yet. A tiny part of him—the part that occasionally doubted himself—wondered if he should have waited for the others, but he silenced it. This was his lead. His discovery. Lovell had been discounted early on, yes, but in the heat of a rapidly moving investigation mistakes often happened. Evidence was overlooked. Corners cut. If Lovell was The Doll Maker—fuck you, Mac—then French would claim this victory all on his own.

Promotion. Pay raise. Pussy.

French opened the spare-room door and stumbled backward, hand over his mouth. The air was thick with heat and the sweet, sickening smell of decomposition. Memory threw him back to Christmas Eve a decade ago.