Once inside, DS Malik took a moment to check her surroundings. The bungalow was modest, the mismatched furniture looked like it had all come from a second-hand shop, but it was tidy and clean. Far tidier, DS Malik knew, than her husband would keep a house if he lived on his own. She saw a little bookcase by the front door that was crammed with books on boats and sailing. There was also a bronze statue on the hall table that depicted an old-fashioned ship under full sail.

The constable coughed and nodded towards an open doorway to the side of the entrance lobby. She went over, entered, and saw a man she presumed was Mr Kassam lying in a double bed, blood all over his face and drenched into his pillows and sheets.

DS Malik approached the body and saw a blister pack of pills, a half-empty glass of water and a leather-bound copy of the Quran on the bedside table. She picked up the pills. They were a brand called Diphenazine.

‘I looked them up,’ the constable said from the doorway. ‘They’re prescription sleeping pills.’

‘Thank you,’ DS Malik said, putting them down and making a mental note to check Mr Kassam’s medical history with his GP.

Looking at the body, she could see that Mr Kassam appeared to be in his thirties, had a thick black beard and curly black hair. He also had a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead, and the back of his head had been blown off, blood, bone and brain spread out in a shocking mess of gore on the pillow.

A shiver ran through DS Malik’s body.

This was her second gunshot death in three days.

And the second bullet fired into the centre of a forehead.

But DS Malik knew that now was not the time for speculation. Initially her job as Acting SIO was to ‘identify, secure and preserve’ the scene. Theorising could come later. So she made herself focus on the physical evidence in front of her.

The constable had been right. There were no signs of a struggle. The duvet was tucked up neatly under the victim’s chin, his arms still to his sides underneath. He’d not kicked out in any way.

This wasn’t just a murder, it was an execution.

A high-pitched whine and scratching noise started up somewhere in the house. Like an animal in pain.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘No idea,’ the constable said, nonplussed.

DS Malik headed back into the sitting room. The strange keening sound was louder here. It seemed to be coming from behind a set of curtains. DS Malik pulled them back to reveal French doors that led onto a little walled garden.