‘Do we know whose place it is yet?’ Porter asked just as the doors opened to reveal the fourth-floor hallway.

‘The flat is registered to a Natasha Barclay and has been since 1981. You need to see this place to believe it,’ said Styles, nodding to the officer guarding the door as they each slipped into a white Tyvek crime scene suit and entered the flat.

The first thing Porter noticed was the smell. The unmistakable perfume of decay hung in the air. Without the update from Styles, he’d have put that solely down to the rotting food, but he knew better than that now. Layered over the top of that was a general sense of mustiness. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. A small wooden table six feet into the hallway had a phone handset that looked like the one his mum used to have. A visible fuzzy blanket of dust coated it and the table surface. He looked at the walls. The wallpaper too looked like a relic from a bygone era. Styles had walked on ahead of him, presumably headed for the kitchen, and Porter hurried after him.

He caught up with him in what he assumed was the main space of the flat. A dining table, clear except for an empty vase, sat over by the far wall. The relatively narrow kitchen area was bordered on two sides by worktops, with the remaining space housing two sofas and a TV that looked almost as old as Porter himself. Never mind retro, he thought, this place looks like it’s stuck in a time warp.

Styles waited patiently by the open freezer door while Porter peered inside. Each of the drawers had been pulled out to varying extents to allow for inspection of the contents. The resulting image reminded Porter of a mini staircase, with the bottom drawer practically hanging out and each of the three above it revealing less and less. The bottom drawer housed the main attraction. The hand sat in the centre of the plastic compartment. It was palm up, its fingers outstretched and curled in ever so slightly at the last joint, as if begging for loose change. The little finger had been severed at the first joint above the knuckle. It looked like a clean cut, and a small circle of bone stared up at him, a white pupil in an iris of grey flesh.

‘Ah, Detective Porter. I see you’ve found exhibit A.’