A policeman was standing outside the door to the flat, in the process of chasing half a dozen nosy kids away as Mike pulled up. 'Hey, copper, is that right – the bloke who lives in there’s a murderer?' shouted one of the boys, no more than eight years old with a shock of red hair. 'Has he chopped somebody to bits?' asked a wide-eyed blonde girl of the same age, her voice rising with fright. 'On yer bikes,' the policeman replied, his eyes on Mike as he got out of the car. Mike showed his badge. The officer nodded as he stepped to one side to let Mike through. 'Hey, mister,' the redhead shouted. 'I’ll not tell yer again,' the copper said, this time glaring at the boy.The kids scampered off, and Mike hid a smile as he opened the door. He noticed the bloody handprint on the door, plus two others along the hallway. The bedroom door was open and, as Mike stepped in to the bedroom, he bit down on a gasp. He found himself looking at a scene from a slaughterhouse. The sheet had been taken away for DNA tests, but the blood had soaked through.
