‘Damn it,’ she breathed. ‘We’ve got to go in, haven’t we?’
‘Nothing for it, I don’t think.’ I shrugged and made for the door.
Chessie caught my shoulder. ‘If we’ve got to break in, I think we should go for the back.’
‘If we have to break in,’ I agreed. ‘But we may as well see if it’s locked, first.’
It wasn’t.
The hinges did not creak. The door swung open about a foot, then caught on the upturned edge of a rug. I struck a match on the sole of my shoe and lit my little candle stub. The entry was strewn with unopened post, addressed to Edgar Jackson.
And blood.
I caught my breath at the smell of rotting human. The lights were off, but the radiators were not, and it was comfortably warm inside, the perfect temperature for decay. I pulled my scarf up over my nose and mouth, which did no
