Porter looked back over his shoulder, recognised one of the senior scene-of-crime officers, Will Leonard, approaching from the hallway. It was hard not to, even with the protective mask over his face, Leonard’s eyebrows like black caterpillars marking him out at any crime scene. He had a mop of greying hair underneath the hood of his Tyvek crime scene suit, though, and Porter was convinced he dyed the brows. Why the brows and not the rest of his hair, though? One of life’s great mysteries.

‘Oh, hi, Will. Looks like a fun one here. What you thinking?’

‘Hard to say yet.’ Leonard shrugged. ‘It’s fairly well thawed now, but impossible to say how long it’s been in there until we run the usual tests, maybe not even then. I’d say a fair while, though, judging from the freezer burn on the skin.’ He pointed at the blotchy pattern across the back of the hand. ‘My guess is twelve months, maybe more.’

‘What about the rest of whoever this is? No sign of any other body parts?’

Leonard shook his head. ‘Just this for now.’

Porter turned to Styles. ‘What have we got apart from this?’

‘It’s a strange one.’ Styles shook his head gently. ‘There’s some opened mail here addressed to a Miss Natasha Barclay. Whether she lives here alone we don’t know yet, but we’re trying to track her down to ask.’

‘What about the neighbours?’

‘We’ve been knocking on doors but only been able to speak to three so far and they’ve been no help, but this is where it all gets a bit weird. Nobody’s seen her, or anyone else, coming or going.’

‘What’s weird about that? People can live in a building like this and not see each other for weeks.’ Porter walked around the living area, soaking in the details.

‘Try ever.’

That stopped Porter in his tracks. He turned back to Styles. ‘Ever?’

‘Nasty echo in here,’ said Styles playfully. ‘Yep, ever. We spoke to three other residents, one of whom has lived here since the early nineties, and not one of them can remember ever seeing or hearing so much as a mouse squeak in here. Same goes for the maintenance guy, although he’s only been here for five years.’

‘OK, that is a little strange, I’ll give you that. I’m assuming you’ve got more than just that, though?’

‘That opened mail I mentioned: there’s a bank statement, a dental appointment letter and one from a friend in Edinburgh. The thing is that they’re all dated 1983. Make of that what you will.’

Porter frowned. ‘1983?’

‘There’s that echo again.’

‘Where’s the mail? Show me.’