‘I can identify three clear contusions plus cuts and grazes to the face. There’s swelling and some bleeding in patches, indicating that those injuries occurred before death. Perhaps the use of the weapon was a last resort. This gentleman’s been dead no more than an hour.’ She picked up each of his hands in turn. ‘Judging by the damage to his knuckles, I’d say he put up a remarkable defence.’

Pulling bags from her pocket, the pathologist slipped a trace evidence preservation cover over each hand and secured each around the wrist.

‘Ge’ the fu’ off me,’ a slurred voice projected from the far end of the alleyway.

‘Excuse me, Ailsa,’ Connie said, checking the lighting as she walked past the rear exit to the sports centre, noting the large bins and the darkened doorways on the other side of the street. Plenty of places for a man or woman to have stood waiting, unseen.

‘Would you calm down, sir? You’re not under arrest, but we need to get you to the station so we can take a full statement,’ a woman replied.

‘Nae going to no fuckin’ polis station, sod yous.’

‘We’ll get you a hot meal and as many cups of tea as you like, but it’s freezing out here now and this’ll take some time,’ the woman kept trying.

Connie could see him now, wrapped in layer upon layer of coats, blankets and a tatty sleeping bag, his face mottled from dirt, the cold and substance abuse.

‘I’m gettin’ going, me. That fuckin’ monster’ll be back, you bet on it.’ He leaned in close to the female officer. ‘He didn’t say a friggin’ word! Not a one. Just kept taking punches until he pulled out that knife and then slam. It was like he was doing no more than carvin’ a turkey. Didn’t even look at the poor bastard as he fell to the floor. You think I’m making a fuckin’ statement? I may be drunk, love, but I’m nae stupid. I dinnae want that demon after me. His fuckin’ face!’

‘What about his face?’ Connie interjected.

‘Ach, it was like a moon wi’ holes for eyes.’ He began picking up a collection of bags and rucksacks from around his feet.

‘How did the man not notice you?’ the officer asked.

‘Under cardboard. Can I get some money?’

‘You know I can’t give you money,’ the officer said gently. ‘But I can get you food. You just need to help us with—’

‘I’ll give you some money if you’ll look at a photo for me,’ Connie told him, typing into her phone.

‘Ma’am that’s not permissible,’ the officer told her.

‘I’m a contracted civilian, not police. The rules don’t apply to me.’ She took a twenty-pound note from her pocket. ‘One photo, but I want your honest reaction. No bullshit, okay?’

Connie held up her phone.