His jacket was a new, medium-quality leather bomber that clearly didn’t stretch across his stomach. Fastening the two sides of the zipper was nothing more than a pipe dream. A Christmas present from someone who loved him and was blind to his increasing girth, probably his mother. The garment had offered no protection against the penetration of a sharp object.

His hair was peppered with grey and too long. His face was clean-shaven and still bore a look of surprise.

‘Murder weapon?’

‘Nothing yet,’ Keats said, turning away.

Kim leaned down and made eye contact with the forensic photographer. He nodded, indicating that he’d taken the shots he needed of the body. He turned his attention to the dog.

She carefully lifted up the sodden T-shirt. One stab wound would have been responsible for most of the blood.

‘I’m guessing the top one is the fatal wound,’ Keats added. ‘And before you ask I’d say kitchen knife, five to six inches.’

‘It won’t be far away,’ she said to no one in particular.

‘How do you figure? It could be anywhere. He could have taken it with him.’

Kim shook her head. ‘The attack may have been planned: late night, dark alley, but there was frenzy involved. There was emotion in this attack. The first injury did the job but there are three “stay dead” wounds.’

She continued to stare down at the corpse, feeling the fury that had accompanied the attack as though it had been captured in the air around her.

She lifted her head. ‘The killer was blinded by rage while committing the act, but once it’s finished that adrenaline recedes and then what?’

Bryant followed her logic. ‘You see what you’ve done and what’s still in your hand and you want to discard the connection as quickly as possible.’

‘Stabbing is very personal, Bryant. It requires a closeness that is almost intimate.’

‘Or it could be a mugging gone wrong. There isn’t any wallet on him.’

Kim ignored his last comment and lowered herself to the ground to the left of the body. She lay on her side and placed her feet right next to the victim’s. The cold gravel path bit straight through her clothes.

Keats looked on, shaking his head. ‘Oh Bryant, every day must be a challenge.’

‘Keats, you really have no idea.’

Kim ignored them both. She pulled back her arm and then lunged it forward in a stabbing motion. The trajectory put the wound at the centre of the breast bone. She tried to match a swipe from her arm to the wound but the momentum wasn’t there.

She shuffled along the floor and did it again. Once more the trajectory was off by an inch or more.

She shuffled just a touch lower, closed her eyes and blocked out the curious gazes around her. She didn’t care what they thought.

She thought of Daisy Dunn standing in the middle of that seedy basement. She pictured that frightened, shivering child dressed in an outfit of her father’s choosing.

This time she swung her arm with anger. With the rage of someone who was ready to kill. She opened her eyes and leaned over. Her index finger was right on the wound.

She looked down and their feet were no longer level. She had dropped by a good four to five inches to achieve a comfortable, natural stabbing position that matched the trajectory of the wound.

She pushed herself to her feet and dusted off her jeans.

She subtracted the difference from her own height. ‘Murderer will be no taller than five three or five four.’

Keats smiled and stroked his beard. ‘You know, Bryant, if Carlsberg made detectives …’

‘Is there anything else I should know?’ Kim said, moving towards the exit flap of the tent.

‘Not until I get him home for a proper look,’ Keats said.

Kim took a moment to survey the scene. Crime scene officers were searching the area for evidence, constables were going door to door, statements were being taken and the ambulance was awaiting the release of the body. Her presence was no longer required. She had everything she needed. It was now up to her to pull it all together and establish what had taken place.

Without speaking, she exited the tent and walked past the two officers guarding the end of the alley.

She was ten feet away when she heard the mutterings between them. She stopped short, causing Bryant to almost crash into the back of her. She turned and headed back.

‘What was that, Jarvis?’

She stood before the DS and thrust her hands into her trouser pockets. He had the grace to colour.

‘Would you like to repeat what you just said? I don’t think Bryant heard you.’

The tall, reedy officer shook his head. ‘I didn’t …’

Kim turned to Bryant. ‘DS Jarvis here just called me a “cold bitch”.’

‘Oh, shit …’

She continued to talk to Bryant. ‘I mean, I’m not saying his assessment is completely wrong but I would like him to explain it.’ She turned back to Jarvis who had moved back a step. ‘So, please, go on.’

‘I wasn’t talking about …’

‘Jarvis, I would have far more respect for you if you could find your backbone for long enough to actually qualify your statement.’

He said nothing.

‘What would you have me do, eh? Am I required to burst into tears for the loss of his life? Would you like me to grieve for his passing? Say a prayer? Lament his fine qualities? Or should I just put the clues together and find whoever did this?’

Her eyes held ground with his. He looked away.

‘I’m sorry, Marm. I shouldn’t have …’

Kim didn’t hear the rest of his apology, as she had already walked away.

By the time she reached the cordon, Bryant was just behind her. She ducked under the tape and then hesitated. She turned to one of the constables.

‘Can someone make sure that dog is taken care of?’

Bryant guffawed. ‘Jeez, Guv, just when I think I know you.’

‘What?’

‘There are constables being abused ’cos of diversion signs, first-time officers who’ve never seen a crime scene, a DS with his nuts chewed off, and you’re bothered about the welfare of the bloody dog.’

‘The dog didn’t figure this into his career plans. The rest should’ve done.’

Bryant got into the car and checked his seat belt, twice.

‘Cheer up, it might not be a simple mugging gone wrong.’

She pulled away from the scene without speaking.

‘I can see it in your face. You look like someone stole your Barbie doll and boiled it.’

‘I never had a Barbie doll, and if I had I would’ve dismembered it myself.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Kim did know what he meant and he was the only detective that could say it and remain unscathed.

Bryant took a pack of sweets from his jacket pocket. He offered her one and she refused.

‘You really should try and cut down on those things,’ she said, as the aroma of menthol filled her car.

Bryant had become addicted to the extra strong cough lozenges after kicking a forty-a-day smoking habit.

‘You know they help me think.’

‘In that case, have a couple.’

Unlike Bryant, she already knew for certain this case was no mugging, so other questions needed to be answered: who, when, how and why.

The ‘How’ was straightforward enough, a blade that she guessed to be somewhere between five and seven inches. The closest ‘When’ would be confirmed at the post mortem. That left the ‘Who’ and the ‘Why’.

Although establishing the ‘Why’ was of paramount importance to the investigation of a crime, for Kim it had never been the most essential part of the puzzle. It was the only element that could not be corroborated by scientific means. It was her job to establish the ‘Why’, but the last thing she needed was to understand it.

She recalled one of her earlier cases as a detective sergeant, when a child had been knocked down on a zebra crossing by a woman whose blood contained three times the legal alcohol limit. The seven-year-old boy died slowly of horrific internal injuries caused by the bull bars on the front of the woman’s jeep. It transpired that the woman had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and had spent the afternoon in the pub.