But it didn’t sound the same, didn’t sound like a journalist’s jaunty, faux-friendly beat. “I’ve told him to fuck off.” She brushed her hands clean on her pajama trousers. “I’m just after telling him that.”

As she stepped back over the boxes the knock was still going, a rhythmic, steady tap on wood, slow and grave. Paddy’s heart jolted a warning.

Her hand hesitated on the handle. It could be a lost drunk who’d wandered up the close, or a journalist from a serious paper looking for news of Callum Ogilvy’s release date. Or George Burns on a downer. Or Terry fucking Hewitt. God, not Terry, please.

She slipped the safety chain on noisily, hoping it sounded more substantial than it was, and opened the door an inch.

Two unfamiliar police officers, a man and a woman, stood shoulder to shoulder, wearing full uniform and looking grimly back at her.

Paddy slammed the door shut in their faces.

Alone in the hall, her knees buckled. She had shadowed the police often enough to know what a death knock looked like: two uniformed officers, stony faced, one of them a woman, turning up at an unexpected hour.

When Paddy was on night shift she’d arrived at the door with them, faked sympathy along with them, never once thinking they would come to her. With them, she kept her face straight during the interview and sniggered at the jokes in the car afterwards, laughing at the clothes and the décor, at the family setup and undercurrents, dead wives found in a boyfriend’s bed, car crashes caused by drink, once a husband found dead in a ladies’ changing room at a department store, trying on girdles. They laughed, not because any of it was funny, but because it was sad.

Someone close to her had died. They had died violently, or she would have been called by a hospital, and they had died alone, or a family member would have phoned her. It had to be Mary Ann.

“Dub?” Her voice was high and wavering. “Could ye come out here a minute?”

Dub took his time. When he appeared he stood in the doorway; he was still looking back at the TV. “What?”

“Two police. Outside. I think something’s happened.”

They looked anxiously at the door, trying to read an answer in the lumpy yellow paint.

Dub came over, standing too close, even jumpier than she was. “Couldn’t be a noise complaint? A mistake? The journalist, the wee guy, was he noisy on the way out?”

Paddy pressed her hand to her mouth.

“It could be Mary Ann.”

“Let them in then.” Dub reached over swiftly, slipped the chain off, and pulled the door wide.

The male officer was a big shed of a man, fat and broad, blue shadow on both his chins, his chest still heaving from the effort of lumbering up the stairs. The woman was blond, hair scraped back so tight it looked as if it had been painted on. She was birdlike: a pointy nose, beady eyes, thin lips. Family Liaison. They always sent out a woman from Family to hold the person’s hand when they sobbed.

The policewoman attempted a smile but it withered on her lips and she slipped Paddy’s eye. She hadn’t done many death knocks, hadn’t yet developed the cold skill of looking heartbreak in the face.

“Hello.” The portly officer took charge. “I’m PC Blane and this is WPC Kilburnie. Are you Paddy Meehan?”

They waited for an answer but Paddy was stiff with fright. She couldn’t seem to get the air to the bottom of her lungs.

“I know it’s you actually.” He half smiled at Paddy. “I recognize your face from the newspapers.”

Paddy did what she always did when a fan approached her. She bared her teeth politely and mumbled an irrelevant “thank you.”

Dub moved in front of her. “Is it Mary Ann?”

Blane blanked his question, stepping over the threshold and looking exclusively at Paddy. “Can we come in?”

She backed away, letting the officers shuffle in, trespassing death into her Wendy house.

Neither of them looked at Dub. Usually he was great at taking charge of a situation. He’d done stand-up for many years and was more than capable of demanding the attention of a nightclub full of drunk people but now, strangely, neither officer would acknowledge him.

“He’s my friend,” said Paddy, pointing at him.

Blane and Kilburnie glanced warily at each other. Blane cleared his throat. “Shall we go through?”

Paddy’s footsteps felt spongy and unsteady as she stepped across the boxes and walked the length of the hall. She slowed as she reached the living room, stalling, as if she could prolong the unknowing moment indefinitely, but Blane took her elbow, hurrying and supporting her at the same time.

“Please sit down.” He guided Paddy through the door and over to the settee. She saw Blane clock George Burns on TV, crouching down at the edge of the stage to talk to a busty woman in the audience.

“Burns,” he muttered dismissively, letting the comment write itself.

Burns had been a policeman before he became a comedian. Every copper in Glasgow had a story about him, usually derogatory-how there were ten guys on every squad funnier than him, how they’d done their training with him and he was a prick then too, anecdotes always delivered with a slightly thrilled smile that they knew someone on telly.

Determined to be spoken to, Dub dropped onto the settee right next to Paddy, reaching for her hand, but Kilburnie managed to squeeze her pointy little self into the space between them.

“Tell me,” said Paddy, taking a deep breath and holding it, bracing herself for the blow.

Kilburnie nodded her head to Dub and widened her eyes. “Maybe it would be better if we spoke to you on your own.”

“Tell me.”

“Well…” She looked uncomfortable. “I’m afraid we have some rather bad news, Miss Meehan.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid,” Kilburnie continued with the standard speech she had practiced in the car, “we found a body yesterday, in the countryside, near Port Glasgow…”

Two fat tears raced down Paddy’s cheeks. “Just say it.”

Kilburnie looked down at her lap, patting her knees with both hands, steeling herself. “Terry Hewitt is dead. A shot to the head, I’m afraid. We would have come sooner only he didn’t have any identification on him and we’ve only just found his flat and been through his effects…”

Paddy sat up. “Terry Hewitt?”

Disconcerted, Kilburnie glanced at Blane. “I’m afraid he’s dead. I’m very sorry.”

Dub sat forward. “Terry Hewitt?”

“Single shot to the head.” Kilburnie gave Blane a worried look. “He’s dead, I’m afraid.”

Dub reached across Kilburnie’s lap. “Paddy? Were you seeing him again?”

“No,” she muttered, “not since… before. I haven’t seen him since Fort William.”

“Why are you telling her this?”

Kilburnie turned to Dub. “I’m very sorry.”

“What are you saying sorry to me for?”

Kilburnie looked from Dub to Paddy. “I’m sorry for talking about this in front of your hubby.”

“Oh.” Dub looked at them both, smiling at the suburban phrasing. “Oh, no. We’re just flatmates. We’re friends.”

“I’m not married,” said Paddy. “Is Mary Ann OK?”

“Who is Mary Ann?” asked Kilburnie.

“My sister. She works in a soup kitchen. She’s a nun. When you said it was out in the country I thought she’d been abducted. I thought she’d been raped…” Paddy clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself talking.

She knew they’d repeat every word of the interview back at the station. A minor provincial celebrity caught off guard wearing ripped pajamas. There were a lot of pauses in police work, opportunities for gossip. They’d describe the purple and yellow hall, her non-hubby flatmate, how they were watching Burns’s show and Paddy was eating biscuits instead of having dinner. They’d tell people about the rip in her pajama bottoms.

“The thing is…” Kilburnie tailed off. “I’m afraid we need you to identify his body.”

“Why me? There must be someone who’s seen him more recently than me. I haven’t seen Terry for six months.”