‘Go on, you can’t stop there.’

‘The first one was a throat slashing that had been closed with clips, it looked like something out of Hammer horror. Then there was a road smash that needed cutting out, there was nothing recognisable as a human being at all, I could only tell one end from the other by the patch of black hair. I was just about managing to keep my breakfast down at this stage and then they showed me a wee boy who had been hanged on a tree by his satchel strap. He was cold, chalk white like your Clyde jumper. I think I could handle the grizzly stuff but the wee boy’s face was so calm and they’d straightened his tie, parted his hair. I ran out of there in floods of tears.’

Valentine listened to the end of her story and empathised. ‘The little kiddies are the ones that really get to you.’

‘Like Janie Cooper, you mean?’

He didn’t respond. The exit for the Southern was yards ahead. He flicked on the indicator.

As they parked, McCormack spoke again. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you.’

‘It’s all right, Sylvia.’

‘I’m only trying to help.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ll shut up now.’

‘You better had, we have a job of work to attend to.’ He locked the car and headed for the mortuary.

The pathology technician directed the detectives to the over-lit room where they had lain out the victim’s body. A large inverted Y-shape marked where the main incisions had been made. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and deep-chested. His neck and arms were heavily muscled and despite his fifty-plus years he had clearly been in good condition. As Valentine’s gaze took in the man’s dimensions he questioned if they had the correct corpse.

‘Are we sure this is our man, he looks huge?’ he said.

‘It’s definitely him, look at the tattoo, sir.’

As McCormack spoke the pathologist entered the room, struggling to fit a pale blue gown over his head. ‘The Royal Highland Fusiliers, if I’m not mistaken,’ he said.

‘I thought it was military,’ said Valentine. ‘And hello to you too, Wrighty.’

‘Good morning to you both.’ He struggled to fasten the gown behind his back. ‘My old man was a bit of a militaria buff, I recognise the crown formation.’

‘Well you’ve saved Sylvia a trip to Google, I’m sure she’ll thank you later.’

The detectives collected polythene folders from the technician. Inside was the pathology report, printed on white A4 paper.

‘We have ID’d him,’ said Valentine, he turned to McCormack.’

‘Yes. His name’s James Tulloch, he was fifty-four.’

‘We took him in for assaulting a previous partner in the nineties and never saw him again so our details are a bit sketchy. Phil and Ally are profiling his latter years now.’

The pathologist looked at the clock. ‘Right, there’s one or two aspects I’d like to point out if you don’t mind cracking on. I’ve got a bloody appointment at Specsavers in half an hour.’

The DI motioned to the corpse with an open hand. ‘Fire away. We’re all busy people.’

‘Well, just follow on the notes and I’ll go through the main points.’ He pushed between the fingers of his gloves and walked towards the slab.

Valentine flipped pages. ‘He looked much smaller at the scene.’

‘A trick of perspective no doubt. If he was crouched over, shoulders facing forward, that would diminish his bulk. A fit and healthy man, though.’

The DI read through the notes on Tulloch’s cardiovascular system, it had become a habit with him. There were no congenital abnormalities, no evidence of fibrosis or inflammation. The report said all coronary segments and arteries were normally distributed and only a minimal atherosclerosis was noted. But, just how would his own post-mortem look by comparison?

‘The bladder wall was intact and the urine clear. We never found anything to raise suspicions there.’

Valentine tapped the page. ‘The stomach contents were clear too.’

‘Mainly unidentifiable, almost fully digested.’

‘There goes my Sugar Puffs theory.’

Wrighty put his fingertips on the rim of the slab and frowned. ‘I’m not even going to ask. Do you want to hear the interesting bits?’

‘Go on.’

‘The cause of death was undoubtedly the neck trauma, in particular the severing of the spinal column. The wound track, back to front, was administered on a horizontal thrust – that’s interesting, don’t you think?’

‘It is if you say it is, perhaps you can elaborate.’

‘Are you up on your bull fighting, Bob?’

‘Not the last time I looked.’

‘In bull fighting circles this type of wound is known as the coup de grâce. It’s how they dispatch the bull, put it out of its misery quickly.’

‘Are you saying I should be looking for a matador?’ the group shared a laugh. ‘Or that this was a professional killing?’ Valentine knew the pathologist couldn’t answer the question, but it was interesting to watch his reaction.

‘Oh, come on, you know that’s above my pay grade.’

‘That puts it well above mine then.’

‘The wound was inflicted by someone who knew how to locate the spinal chord, that’s as far as I can surmise, Bob.’

McCormack looked up from her folder. ‘It says here there was a head injury too.’

‘I was just getting to that. I did find an irregular scalp and skull defect near the midline of the occipital region.’

‘In English, Wrighty.’

‘Someone bumped him on the back of the head, with something heavy. No idea what, before you ask, I couldn’t find any metallic, wood or any other fragments so your guess is as good as mine.’

Valentine folded his report and tucked it inside his jacket. His gaze fell on the deceased but he was addressing the room as he spoke. ‘Someone whacked him on the head, enough to knock him out but not to kill him.’ He looked to the pathologist for confirmation.

‘It’s a significant head wound, I’m sure it would have rendered even a fit man like this unconscious.’

‘So he’s knocked out, but still with us when the coup de grâce is administered to finish the job?’

‘That’s about the strength of it.’

‘Well, I find that very interesting.’

‘Very.’ He waved in the technician. ‘Now the difficult work begins.’

‘It does indeed.’

12

Chief Superintendent Marion Martin stood in front of a filing cabinet with the top drawer open, peering into a blue folder. She scratched at the corner of her mouth with a long fingernail as her eyes moved back and forth over the printed page. With her tight black skirt, and the small white collar of her blouse pointing to the ceiling, it seemed like a pose she had practised, or perhaps stolen from a magazine.

As Valentine entered he asked himself how long the CS might stand with her back to him before acknowledging he was there. He knew the answer was as long as she liked so he stationed himself in the seat in front of her desk. He stared out the window that dominated one wall of the large office. The town of Ayr, pelted by rain, looked grey and bleak beyond the blurry splatter marks and failed to hold his attention. As he turned back to the CS he willed her to break concentration, but when that became a bore he tried noisy throat clearing.

‘I hear you, Bob,’ said CS Martin.

‘If I’ve come at a bad time, I can try again later.’ He eased himself out of the chair; he was too busy to play witness to her display of power.

‘Sit.’

A cheeky response came to him: Is there a dog in the room? But he suppressed it, did as he was told and retreated into the seat.

‘Right, Bob. Tell me about this team-building exercise.’ She yanked her chair out and positioned herself precariously on the edge, facing the DI over linked fingers.

Had he heard her properly? Surely she wasn’t going to bring up the paintball or the go-karts again. There was a murder investigation under way. A man had been brutally killed the night before. And a few hours before that there had been a robbery with aggravated assault. No one at the station was short of things to do.