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Acting DS Seagram – and her nod of acknowledgement, while little more than a fractional tilt of the chin, seems like the most heart-warming welcome imaginable.
    ‘OK,’ Vos says. ‘So what we know is this: some time before 8.47 p.m. on Sunday night, Ahmed Doe is tied to a railway bridge by person or persons unknown. Prior to that, according to the pathologist, he was incapacitated with a stun gun. At 8.47 p.m. he is struck by the Newcastle to Edinburgh train. The body is catapulted into the neighbouring garden of our footballing friend, where it is discovered the next morning by the gardener. As yet we have no name for the victim, and his only distinguishing feature is a distinctive tattoo or branding mark on his testicles. Any questions? John?’
    ‘The branding mark,’ Fallow says. ‘Are we thinking torture?’
    ‘I’m more inclined to go with gang initiation. Mayson, do a trawl of the international databases. See if there’s any mention of this KK design.’
    ‘You think our guy is foreign?’ Huggins says. ‘I mean he
looks
foreign, but—’
    ‘I don’t think anything, Phil. I’m relying on you people to tell me. And unless he was a masochist escapologist who got it wrong, we are treating this as murder. I take it you’ve worked a murder case before?’
    It takes a moment for Ptolemy to realize that Vos is talking to her.
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    Ptolemy wonders if Vos has read her file. Her one and only murder case as a detective was a domestic disagreement that got out of hand in a remote cottage in the Cheviots. A farm hand had returned home at the end of a two-day bender and taken exception to his wife’s nagging, killing her with a single punch. He had then called the police and had been sitting in his kitchen, waiting, when Ptolemy and the uniformed response unit arrived an hour later.
    ‘So what do you think?’
    She clears her throat. ‘I was . . . thinking about motive, sir?’
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘Well, the nature of the victim’s death suggests to me one of two things: either the killer was teaching him a lesson, or he was sending a message.’
    To her surprise, Vos nods at Seagram, who writes the two words ‘LESSON’ and ‘MESSAGE’ on the board in black felt-tip.
    ‘OK,’ he says. ‘What do we think about that?’
    ‘Either way it’s been carried out with extreme prejudice,’ Huggins says.
    ‘It’s got to be gang-related,’ Fallow says.
    And then everybody is speculating at once, leaving Ptolemy not knowing what to say.
    Eventually Vos calls order. ‘Right,’ he says. ‘I think we all know what needs to be done. Let’s get to work.’ Then he looks at Ptolemy. ‘Come with me,’ he says. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’
    Vos’s car is parked in the staff car park at the rear of the building. By the time Ptolemy has finished buckling her seatbelt, Vos has already swung the vehicle into the traffic streaming west out of the city.
    ‘So what do you think?’ he says.
    ‘Of the team? They’re nice. I like them.’
    ‘No doubt Huggins and Fallow have already invited you out for a drink.’
    She smiles. ‘Phil did suggest it would be a good idea to bond.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘Maybe another time.’
    ‘Wise move,’ Vos says. ‘Huggins has still got one foot in the sixth-form common room. Fallow is just easily led astray. You go drinking with them, you’ll end up at two in the morning in a lap-dancing bar on the Quayside.’
    ‘I thought DC Fallow was married, sir.’
    ‘He is,’ Vos says.
    ‘DC Calvert seems a little . . .’
    ‘Odd? He is. Sometimes I don’t understand a word he says. But he’s harmless. And if you ever want your house rewiring, he’s your man. But if you have any problems, see Bernice Seagram. Or Una Cattrall. In fact, just see Una. She runs the department.’
    They head down the hill, past the municipal crematorium and out beyond the Western Bypass to the A69 dual carriageway that connects the city to the market towns and