Night crimes were always different from the affairs of daylight hours. If it sounded superstitious, supernatural even, then Valentine accepted it without a shrug. By this stage he knew the facts and they couldn’t be ignored, it would be a fool who tried. DI Bob Valentine knew he was no fool, at least when it came down to the job. In what remained of his life outside the force, he conceded, the opposite was likely to be true.

The silver Vectra was filthy, muddy arches and a roof covered in thick, mucky dust. The detective ran his finger along the dull wing and frowned. ‘Could write my name in that.’

He’d told DS McAlister to take the car for a wash and wax earlier but obviously he hadn’t barked loud enough for the importance of the request to register. ‘Bloody hell, Ally,’ he shook his head. ‘Tonight of all nights.’

Valentine opened the back door of the car and flung his briefcase in the footwell. As he removed his jacket a bead of sweat prickled on his brow, he dabbed at it with the back of his hand, settled behind the wheel and started the engine. The police radio was on, fizzed a little, then spluttered a message for uniform.

‘Getting reports of a disturbance on Arthur Street at the Meat Hangers nightclub, anyone available to attend?’

The detective leaned over and turned off the radio. The call was only a short diversion away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles.

‘No chance.’ He gripped the wheel.

It was a mild night, a slight breeze but nothing serious. One of those evenings where he was glad to be on the west coast; at the tail end of spring the west’s worst offence was mugginess blurring the views across the Firth of Clyde to the Isle of Arran. In the summer he’d heard you could grow tomatoes outside because of the warm winds of the Gulf Stream, though he had never tried. The idea of himself as a gardener was enough to make him laugh; days of domesticity, of normalcy, were not for him. He checked his wristwatch – at least he was on time – he might not arrive in a gleaming car but he’d arrive nonetheless. It would be a small victory to weigh against the deepening shame he had come to feel for his position as a family man who spent so little time at home.

Valentine drove to the edge of Barns Street and parked the car. The crimson sky was retreating behind a widening grey smear now, but it didn’t seem to bother the runners and dog walkers descending on the Low Green. In a few months the grass would be dotted with day-trippers clutching disposable barbecue sets and – the scourge of uniform – teenagers with two-litre bottles of cider. The detective drew a deep breath; his own daughter was just about old enough to be one of them. The thought that Chloe was of an age to experiment with drink, and more besides, made his insides tense.

The Vectra’s side-lights blinked as Valentine locked up and headed for the Gaiety Theatre. He checked his watch again, he was still on time, the idea that he wouldn’t be – after Chloe’s months of pestering – was unthinkable. Clare had already warned him about missing their daughter’s stage debut and Valentine regarded his daughter as too precious to disappoint. He made for the theatre, brushing the shoulders of his jacket with his fingertips as he went. Something like pride – he remembered it now – was sneaking back into his consciousness.

In the foyer, Valentine collected his ticket and made for the stairs. The atmosphere unnerved the detective, he wasn’t used to mahogany panelling – even the slightly worn variety of the Gaiety’s – it was an industrial shade of grey that covered the walls of King Street station. Perhaps more concerning than the setting, however, was that he would have to spend the next hour and a half with his phone switched off; he could never fully outrun the job.

Clare spotted him first, leaning out from her seat in the middle of the row and beckoning him to her.

‘Hello,’ he muttered under heavy breath.

As Valentine entered the narrow seating channel he was forced to dislodge some sneering early birds.

Clare stepped in front of him when he drew near. ‘You’re here. I had wondered.’

‘I said I was coming.’

‘Yes, but you say lots of things, Bob.’

His father rose beside her, coughing loudly as if to distract Clare. She turned. ‘I know, I know – we’re here to enjoy ourselves.’

‘Hello, Dad.’ He watched the old man sway a little, stooped where he stood. ‘Sit down, I’m here now.’

His father had scraped back his thinning hair and wore a dark suit, the same one he wore to Bob’s mother’s funeral. ‘You scrub up not too bad, Dad.’

‘It’s not every night your own take to the stage.’

Clare brightened beside him; Valentine took a moment to share in their pride. ‘Where’s Fiona?’

‘Buying sweets, there’s a queue.’

There was an awkward silence when the three stared ahead at the empty stage, and then the old man spoke. ‘I think I’ll go and find some mints myself, they used to have a wee girl that sold peanuts and cigarettes but I suppose they’ve long done away with her.’

‘She’ll be pensioned off now, Dad.’

‘Cheeky bugger, it wasn’t that long ago.’ He paused as he stood. ‘Actually maybe it was, can I get you pair anything?’

They shook their heads and watched until he was out of sight. As the old man left them, Clare jerked herself to face Valentine. ‘I swear, if you do anything to ruin tonight for our daughter your murder squad won’t have to look far for their next victim.’

‘Harsh, Clare.’ He returned her gaze. ‘I’m here aren’t I? Like I said I would be.’

‘I hope that phone’s off.’

The standard response sat on his lips – a desire to defend himself – but it wasn’t the place. ‘It’s switched off, yes.’ Valentine treated his wife to a wide smile. He turned away, started to remove his jacket and use it to fashion a buffer between himself and any more strife.

‘You look nice, dear.’

Clare peered over her nose. ‘Yes, it’s a new dress if that’s what you’re getting at!’

‘No, I never said a thing.’ He took in the dress. ‘It’s very nice though, you suit it.’

She crossed her legs, there was a sharp edge to her voice. ‘And the shoes are new too, before you ask.’

‘I wasn’t about to.’ Clare’s unease was down to the fact that there were too many previous occasions he hadn’t been there for his daughters. He couldn’t blame her for the reaction, it was justified. Clare was the homebuilder, his contributions were minimal.

The chatter in the auditorium started to subside, a new hush spreading. As Valentine peered along the row his father and daughter appeared clutching bags of sweets, their hands were full.

‘Fiona, you’ll make yourself sick if you eat that lot,’ said Clare.

‘She’s fine, it’s a one-off.’ Valentine reached over to help his daughter into her seat. ‘Hello, love.’

Clare whispered as he stretched passed her, ‘Good cop, bad cop is it?’

He let the comment go, turned back to face the stage. ‘Must be starting.’

‘It’s a bit early.’ Clare checked her watch, curtains seemed to be moving on the stage. ‘Hang on, what’s this?’

Valentine followed the line of his wife’s fingernail as she pointed to the side of the stage. A broad man in a white shirt and black tie was peering from the edge of the curtain, he was theatre staff, but the man with him wasn’t.

‘Oh, Christ.’

‘What?’ Clare turned towards her husband. ‘What is it?’

As the detective stared out he recognised the figure beside the theatre usher, there was no mistaking the gangly frame beneath the well-worn wax jacket.

‘It’s Ally.’

Clare’s face drooped. ‘Who?’ She jerked her gaze back towards the stage. The usher was pointing to their row now, the man in the wax jacket easing himself down the stage and jogging towards the middle aisle.

‘Tell me this isn’t happening,’ said Clare.

Valentine searched for a response but found none. He turned towards his wife and garbled, ‘Something’s up. I don’t know what. Look, I’m sorry.’