Randy was apparently on his way over, and Fleet could just imagine the pathologist’s reaction when he arrived. The heat would make his job that much harder, not least in trying to pinpoint a time of death. Apparently none of Lance’s neighbours had seen him in days, meaning Nicky could well have been the last person to speak to him, forty-eight hours ago now.

‘Sorry, sir. Until we get set up, that’s as far as we can allow you to go.’

One of the SOCOs held up an arm to barricade the doorway into the kitchen. The kitchen was galley-style, Fleet saw, with a short run of units on either side. Even in normal circumstances, there would have been barely enough room for him to fit inside. As it was, the space between the units was taken up by Lance Wheeler’s dangling body.

‘Jesus,’ muttered Nicky.

A stepladder had been laid sideways across the top of the wall units. Ben’s former schoolmate was hanging by his neck from a leather belt that had been looped around one of the rungs. A chair was toppled over underneath his feet, and his trousers sagged below his waistline. His eyes were open. They gazed glassily into empty space.

Like the rest of the flat, the kitchen itself was filthy. There were used cooking pots on the hob, and unwashed dishes stacked in the metal sink. As for Lance, it was obvious that even when he’d still been alive, he’d hardly been in a better state himself. There was a scruffy beard covering his pale and bloated cheeks, and his hair – thin on top – appeared greasy and uncut. The waistband of his trousers was frayed, with one of the belt loops hanging loose and another missing completely. His T-shirt was equally threadbare, with a brownish tinge in places that would once have been white.

‘Who was it who found him?’ Fleet asked the nearest SOCO.

‘The landlord,’ she replied. ‘A neighbour complained about the smell.’

‘Boss? Take a look at this.’

It was Nicky’s voice. She’d moved away, and was standing at the threshold to the living room.

Fleet turned from the scene in the kitchen, and tracked Nicky’s gaze. On a desk beside the sofa there was an ancient laptop. It had the look of being permanently plugged into the wall, suggesting the battery had given out, but it was clearly drawing power from the socket, because the screen showed a blank white page and a blinking cursor. Although, as Fleet stepped forward, he realised the page was only mostly blank.

He glanced at Nicky, and then moved closer, carefully picking his way across the cluttered floor. Halfway to the desk, he stopped again. There were indeed two typed words at the top of the page. Barely even a sentence, really – but the message Lance had left them was clear.

Wednesday 23 October, 3.16 p.m.