Phil looked to a SOCO officer standing beside him.

‘Okay if I cross?’

The SOCO nodded. ‘Think we’re done with this one. Got everything we need.’

‘Photos?’

The SOCO nodded again.

Phil stepped over the body, careful not to track blood into any other room. The bedroom door was open. He walked towards it, looked in. And felt his stomach pitch and roll.

‘Oh God, this is a bad one . . .’

A white-suited silhouette heard Phil’s voice, detached himself from a group of similarly dressed figures at the end of the hall, came to join him in the doorway. ‘Like we ever get good ones?’

‘Not as bad as this . . .’ The smell was stronger here. He couldn’t describe it; it was life, it was death, it was everything the human body was. It was something he had smelled before. It was something he knew he would never forget.

As he looked at the body on the bed, he felt his chest constrict, his arms shake. No. This was no time for a panic attack. He breathed deeply through his mouth, forced his emotions down, his breathing back to normal. React as a copper, he told himself; it’s up to you to make order out of this chaos.

Detective Sergeant Clayton Thompson, one of Phil’s team. Tall and in good shape, the white of his hood emphasising his tanned features, his usually self-confident, even cocky, smile replaced by a frown of concentration. ‘Should have waited for you to turn up before going in, boss. Sorry.’

Phil always made a point of assembling his team at any crime scene. Entering together got them pooling their initial responses, sharing their theories, working towards a common conclusion. He was slightly annoyed that Clayton hadn’t waited for him, but given the severity of the situation, it was understandable.

‘Where’s Anni?’ he asked.

In response to his question a head poked round the frame of the bathroom door.

‘Here, boss.’ Detective Constable Anni Hepburn was small, trim, with variably coloured spiked hair that always contrasted with her dark skin. The strands poking out of her white hood were today mostly blonde. She gave a quick glance to Clayton. ‘Sorry, we should have waited for you, but Forensics said—’

Phil held up a hand. ‘We’re all here now. Let’s get going.’

A look passed between Clayton and Anni. Quick, then gone. Phil caught it, couldn’t read it but hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was. He always felt slightly jealous at the amount of female attention Clayton attracted, and he knew the DS often did plenty about it. But not with members of his own team. Not with Anni. Still, now wasn’t the time to think about that. They had work to do.

He turned back to the room, took in the scene before him. Forensics had set up their arc lamps, shining down on the bed, lending the central tableau an unreal air, as if it was a film or a stage set. They moved about in the light in hushed, almost reverential silence, kneeling, bending, peering closely at what was before them, scraping and bagging, sampling and storing. Like stage management or props making final adjustments.

Or supplicants before a sacrificial altar, thought Phil. A woman lay on the bed, spreadeagled and naked, wrists and ankles tied to the metal frame. Her stomach had been cut open and her eyes had rolled back in her head as if in witness to something only she could see.

Phil swallowed hard. The one in the hall had been bad enough. This one threatened to reacquaint him with the cup of coffee and two slices of wholemeal toast and Marmite he had had for breakfast. Just what he needed on a Tuesday morning.

‘Jesus,’ said Clayton.

‘I mean, this is Colchester,’ said Anni, shaking her head. The other two looked at her. She was visibly shaken. ‘Things like this don’t happen here. What the hell’s going on?’

Clayton was ready with a retort. Phil sensed his two officers were starting to develop unprofessional responses. He had to keep them focused. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What do we know?’

Anni snapped back into work mode, pushed a hand down her paper suit, withdrew a notebook, flipped it open. Phil took a grim pride in the fact that she had recovered so quickly, that she was professional enough to work through it. ‘The flat belongs to Claire Fielding,’ she said. ‘Primary school teacher, works out Lexden way.’

Phil nodded, eyes still on the bed. ‘Boyfriend? Husband?’

‘Boyfriend. We checked her phone and diary and we think we’ve got a name. Ryan Brotherton. Want me to look into it?’

‘Let’s get sorted here first. Any idea who’s in the hall?’

‘Julie Simpson,’ said Clayton. ‘Another teacher, works with Claire Fielding. It was her husband who contacted us.’

‘Because she didn’t go home last night?’ asked Phil.

‘Yeah,’ said Clayton. ‘He called us when she didn’t come back. This was well after midnight. Apparently there was some kind of get-together here last night. He’d tried phoning and got no reply. Not the kind to be out on a bender, apparently. ’

‘Not on a school night, anyway,’ said Anni.

‘Has he given a statement?’ said Phil.

Clayton nodded. ‘Over the phone. Bit distraught.’

‘Right. We’ll talk to him again later.’

Anni looked at him, worry in her eyes. ‘There’s, erm . . . there’s something else.’

She turned, gestured to the living room. Phil, glad of the excuse to not look at Claire Fielding’s body any more, followed her, stopping at the entrance to the living room. He looked inside, instinctively trying to get some idea of her life, her personality. The person she used to be.

The room was tastefully furnished, clearly on a budget, but small flourishes and touches of individuality indicated that the budget had been used creatively. With books and CDs, foreign ornaments and framed photos, it spoke of a rich, full life. But something stood out.

On the coffee table were empty and half-empty bottles of wine, white and red, a sparkling soft drink and several glasses. In amongst the glasses and bottles was the detritus of opened presents. Boxes, bags, gift wrap, tissue paper. The presents were there too. Toys, both soft and primary-coloured plastic. All-in-one Babygros, shawls, hats, jumpers, socks, shoes.

‘This get-together . . .’ Anni said.

‘Oh Christ . . .’ said Phil. He was aware of Anni looking at him, gauging his reaction, but couldn’t look at her or Clayton yet. His pulse began to quicken. He tried to ignore it.

‘You’ll see one of them wasn’t drinking,’ said a voice from the bedroom.

The three of them turned. Nick Lines, the pathologist, was straightening up from the bed, peering over the tops of his glasses at Phil. He was a tall, shaven-head, hook-nosed, slightly cadaverous man, with graveyard looks and a gallows humour to match. He always looked excited at a crime scene, Phil thought. As much as he ever looked excited at anything. Lines took his glasses off, looked at Phil. ‘I’m guessing that’s because, as far as I can make out from an initial examination, she was pregnant.’

Phil stared with renewed horror at the slit stomach. He didn’t dare voice the question that all three of them were thinking. ‘Shit,’ was all he could say.

‘Quite,’ said Lines, his voice like Nick Cave’s more miserable brother. ‘She was pregnant. And before you ask, the answer’s no. There’s no sign of it. Anywhere in the flat. Once we realised what condition she had been in, that was the first thing we did.’

Phil felt his heart beating faster, his pulse racing; tried to calm it down. He would be no good to the investigation in that frame of mind. He turned to the pathologist, his voice urgent.

‘What have you got, Nick?’

‘Well, as I said, this is only preliminary; don’t hold me to any of it. The obvious stuff first. Broken nose, bruising. She was punched in the face. Hard. It looks like she’s been injected with something at the back of her neck. Then again at the base of her spine. Obviously I don’t know what it is yet but I’d hazard a guess that it was something to paralyse her.’