“There’s a side door,” Farrell told him, gesturing towards the narrow street on their right. “It was open when we got here, as well. There’s no sign of damage to it, and none of the crew reported forcing entry.”

“So someone with legitimate access opened the doors?”

“Too soon to say,” Farrell cautioned.

“The builders’ crew might have left them open accidentally,” offered Cullen.

“One, maybe, but both?” Farrell shook his head. “I suppose it’s possible, but not all that likely, in my opinion. Which takes us back to an illegitimate entry, but if that’s the case, we’ve not turned up anything noteworthy on the preliminary outside search.”

The station officer came up and spoke to Farrell. “The SOCOs have finished their preliminary examination, guv, and the structure seems stable. I think it’s cool enough for the dog, if she wears her booties.” He gave the dog a friendly pat, but she ignored him, all her attention focused on the building. When Martinelli pulled a set of paw protectors from his tunic pocket, she began to dance and strain at her lead.

“All right, girl, all right,” he soothed, kneeling to slip the rubber boots over her paws.

“Let me get my kit from the van, will you?” Farrell said, adding, “It’s Rose, is it? Since you’re here, Rose, you can go through the scene with us, tell us if anything strikes you.”

Farrell strode to the brigade van, returning with a bulky evidence collection bag and a notebook. “Right, then, let’s have a look.”

They queued up behind Farrell single file – Indian file, Kincaid would have said as a child, and he felt a flicker of regret for a politically correct age in which his children would never be encouraged to play cowboys and Indians, or army. He had done both, and had still grown up relatively civilized.

But any pleasant thoughts of childhood were quickly banished as he stepped through the warehouse doorway behind Farrell and Rose Kearny. If the smell had been bad outside, in here it was choking, a physical substance that permeated skin, hair, clothing, sinuses. As he blinked his watering eyes, he detected another odor beneath the pervasive char, the faint, oily sweetness of roasted flesh.