Porter moved over to the wardrobe, one door slightly ajar with gauzy strands of cobweb laced across the gap like the back of a corset. He opened it slowly, watching to see if the web’s architect was at home, but there was no sign of life. Porter was no fashionista but the suits that hung in the wardrobe reminded him of some of his mum’s outfits from family pictures before he was even born, let alone a toddler. It was starting to feel like an eighties version of Great Expectations, and he’d walked into Satis House with Miss Havisham lurking somewhere inside.

Satisfied that there was nothing of immediate interest in the bedroom, they made their way back out to the kitchen area in time to see Will Leonard placing the hand carefully into an evidence bag. Porter turned and scanned the living room. It reminded him of a party he’d been at last year where a fight had broken out. An armchair lay on its side like a wounded animal. A small coffee table that had presumably been next to it was upturned, one of the legs snapped off at the halfway point. A magazine lay face down, pages sprawled open and spine pointing upwards.

He saw dark smudges on the far wall, and moved in for a closer look. The cream paint was flecked with dark spots, a night sky in reverse. A handful of evidence markers, little yellow tents, had set up camp on the carpet around a series of brown stains. All in all, the room looked like a jigsaw smashed by an angry child, none of the pieces seeming to go together just yet. He wandered over to where Styles waited at the door.

‘Let’s head back to the station then and see if we can track down Miss Barclay, or at least rustle up some family and friends to speak to.’

‘After you,’ said Styles, gesturing towards the door. Porter had just walked past him when he added, ‘Do you think the techs can manage to carry everything, or should we offer to give them a hand?’

CHAPTER TWO

Natasha Barclay was a ghost, figuratively speaking, at least. Between them they couldn’t find a single mention of her dated past 1983. Her flat was one of fifteen in a five-storey late Victorian building near Walthamstow, in North East London, built originally as an orphanage. The airy high ceilings and ornate cornices had reminded Porter a little of his own place, although he guessed his flat could fit inside these twice over.