Valentine took in the scene, which hinted at surreal domesticity. On the table, beside a spreading pool of blood that threatened to spill over the edge, sat a bottle of HP sauce and a sugar bowl with odd pink splodges inside. There was a packet of Sugar Puffs spread on the floor and some of the contents had been stamped into the linoleum where the blood lay in tacky footprints.

A chip pan on the cooker. A white plastic jug kettle. Fridge. Washing machine. And men in white suits raking the contents of cupboards, drawers and the kitchen counter for whatever they could find.

‘No weapon,’ said Valentine. It was a statement but everyone at once knew it was also a question that required an answer.

A blue face mask was pulled down. ‘No sign of one, sir.’

‘What about the cutlery drawer, any knife sets? Steak knives maybe with one missing?’

The mask went back on, head shakes followed.

‘Well this is bloody great. A fatal domestic, in the one place of the house you’d expect to find a multitude of weapons and no weapon.’

DS McAlister arrived. ‘Not resorting to guesswork are you, boss? Might not have been a domestic.’

‘Touché, pal.’ He walked round the corpse and peered over the top of the deceased’s head. ‘It’s a tidy scene, too tidy. Maybe a row over the Sugar Puffs – I wouldn’t want those for my tea either – and then the knife goes in the back of the neck.’

As Valentine straightened himself the team followed with their eyes. DS McCormack spoke: ‘Possibly a panic move, sir. If we go on the assumption most victims know their murderer, and why wouldn’t we assume this in a family home, then the sight of him sitting there with a knife in his back would be a shock.’

‘So our Bronco Billy retrieves the knife and then …’ the DI turned around, scanning the floor and down the hall.

‘If the assailant’s in shock, say it’s the woman and this is her partner, she wouldn’t want to look.’

‘So, she takes off with the knife.’

DS McAlister pointed back to the hall. ‘She tanks it, boss, fast as she can. Probably doesn’t even realise she’s holding the knife, she’s in pixie land. There’s tears, snot, hysterics.’ McAlister waved his hand towards the wall, traced the line of blood smears. ‘She’s all over the shop, can hardly stand, that’s how we get the streaks.’

‘Is it?’ Valentine’s voice indicated a put-down was coming for the theorists. He walked towards Ally. ‘Only problem is, son, those smears on the wall, remember, they end in five digits. It’s pretty hard to hold a knife, bloody big one at that, with your hands open and pressed to the plasterboard.’

McAlister sucked on his bottom lip. ‘So we’re talking two people.’

Valentine’s eyes widened. ‘Could be.’

Valentine strolled round the corpse, keeping his head down and eyes focussed. He appeared to be taking pictures to store in his memory, recording the scene. His breathing stilled and his demeanour became suffused with concentration. When he reached the other side of the corpse he crouched lower beside an outstretched arm, ‘Ally, give me that pen.’

‘You see something?’

Valentine took the pen and slotted the end under the victim’s T-shirt sleeve, pulled back the fabric to reveal more of the arm. A detailed crown and feathers, in faded blue ink, sat beneath the skin. ‘Is that military?’

McAlister peered closer. ‘A military tattoo – wouldn’t we hear drums and pipes, boss?’

‘Very funny. Get that snapped and check it out.’

‘Will do.’

DS Donnelly joined them in the kitchen. ‘That’s the duster here, sir, I put him on the hall first.’

‘Nice one, Phil. And have we had the pleasure of Mr Scott’s company?’ The fiscal depute had an officious reputation that grated on Valentine. ‘Please tell me I haven’t missed our regular parley.’

‘I’m afraid so, arrived the same time as the doc, so he’s been and gone with a death cert in his mitt.’

‘Right, in that case, let’s get our victim over to pathology. I want whatever secrets he’s holding as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘And Phil, get uniform to search the grassy patch at the end of the street, and all the way into the town. If the perp took off in a fit of panic chances are the weapon was dumped in a similar fashion.’

DS McAlister spoke: ‘Do you want the rest of us back at the station?’

‘Not you, you’re on the door-to-door with uniform. And remember they’re jumpy. We want answers but we don’t want anyone upset, do you get me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anything at all unusual, I want to know, Ally. If a stray dog took a squirt on the lamppost out there I want it ID’d. Any ructions from the locus, shouting, screaming – get exact times and places. And, Ally, try to get a handle on the type of people we’re dealing with. What did the locals think of the Millars and James Tulloch? Where’s the teenager? And get a hold of the older kid. When you have a picture, head for the station, make a start pinning what we have on the board.’

The DI headed towards the street, the sky was darkening now. ‘Sylvia, get your car, we’re going for a jaunt.’

‘Yes, sir. Where are we off to?’

‘The hospital. Hopefully our witness is compos mentis.’

7

DI Bob Valentine watched the street lamps fizzing into life above the road as they headed out of Whitletts. Darkness hadn’t fully arrived yet and the amber glow from above added an unnatural sheen to the route. They had passed the station, and were heading out towards Tam’s Brig before Valentine realised they were travelling in the opposite direction of Ayr Hospital.

‘Sylvia, I know you’ve not been in the town long but you should know the hospital’s the other way.’

The DS took her gaze from the road. ‘She’s in Crosshouse, sir.’

‘They took her to Kilmarnock when we have that massive hospital here.’

‘Better equipped, apparently.’

Valentine tugged at his seatbelt to allow him more room to turn around. ‘How bad is this woman? I mean, I don’t want to get out there and find out she’s in a coma and can’t talk.’

‘She’s stable, I believe. Gave herself a bad knock on the way down, and she’s a fair old age, so I’m presuming they’re being careful.’

Valentine locked away the information about the victim and how the medics rated the town’s main hospital. The place had only been built a few years ago – at least, that’s how it looked to him – and now it was outdated compared to the Kilmarnock facility. Everything in the old town was falling apart or closing down. Shops in the centre were being shuttered every other day. Pound stores and charities selling second-hand junk was the only growth area. It didn’t feel like a place anyone wanted to live anymore.

‘How have you settled in, Sylvia?’ he said.

‘Well, Ayr’s not that far from Glasgow, but it’s a long way away if you know what I mean.’

‘We’ll not be staging the Commonwealth Games here, that’s for sure.’

Sylvia accelerated to beat the traffic lights where a junky stood shivering at the pedestrian crossing. ‘There are some similarities, though.’

‘Junkies you mean. I don’t know where they all came from, never saw them until a few years ago …’ the DI trailed off. ‘God, I sound like my father. I’ll be blaming Thatcher next.’

The conversation turned briefly to politics, to the state of the country, and then back to the town and their reason for being there.

‘We shouldn’t complain, sir,’ said Sylvia. ‘We’re probably in the one growth profession.’

‘Sad but true. As long as you’re not finding the going too tough, I mean, we’re not as well resourced as Glasgow out here in the wild west.’

‘It’s fine. I don’t have a life, remember.’

Valentine didn’t reply. There was a point among colleagues where day-to-day chat about the job turned into a more personal affair. There had been moments in the past when he had relied on DS McCormack’s insights into his personal life but they had always left him feeling compromised, like he owed her something in return. That had been fine when she was merely seconded to Ayr for one specific case but since she had been posted permanently he couldn’t take the risk.