‘Can you describe the man he was arguing with?’ I ask.

He closes his eyes.

‘Aye, he was tall; I had to look up to see his face, though I’d have to say that about 90% of the population.’

He laughs self-deprecatingly.

‘He had a patchy beard and was wearing a beanie hat,’ he trails off and as I’m about to ask my next question, he adds, ‘oh, and what looked like brand new boots. Those stood out because everything else that he was wearing seemed a bit old and tatty and those were clean as a whistle.’

The description of the man sounds very much like someone already known to us.

‘Did the man seem homeless?’

He considers the question, appearing to be throwing the image of the man around his head. Eventually, he nods in the affirmative.

‘Did you see where he went when he left?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t sorry, I assume back towards Piccadilly Gardens in the centre, that’s where most of them spend the night.’

‘And what about the American?’

‘He stayed for a few more pints, went to the toilet and then went outside to have a cigarette. Never came back. I figured, when I saw the size of the body this morning, that it was him.’

‘Thank you, Ciaran, you’ve been so helpful. Just one last question.’ He nods. ‘Do your CCTV cameras work?’

‘The one in here does,’ he says, motioning to a black orb in the ceiling. ‘The outside one facing the car park doesn’t work but the one facing the street does.’ I curse the CCTV gods; of course the most helpful one isn’t working.

I paint a smile on. ‘And is there any way you could send across the footage?’

He tells us that his wife is the technological one in their relationship and promises us that as soon as she is back from her shopping trip, he will get her to send it across, by tonight at the latest. We offer him money for the hot drinks but he declines, shaking our hands and showing us out onto the rainy street.

As we walk back to the car with hunched shoulders and our hands in our pockets, I can’t help but speculate that this homeless man isn’t homeless at all, and that he is the killer we desperately need to find.

16

‘They’re calling him The Blood Ice Killer,’ DCI Bob shouts down the phone.

‘Who?’ I ask.

‘The press. I’ve had someone from London on the phone and some fella from New York too.’

I think back to the reporters at the entrance to the alleyway and then the press conference from earlier where we confirmed the murder and appealed for witnesses. The press love a catchy moniker to capture the public’s attention and to help sell their wares.

I suppose the fact that Jay is American has taken the case trans-Atlantic. I can see why he is so angry about it though. Now that it is in the psyche of the nation, we as a collective are going to be under so much public scrutiny.