Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter 25

They were sitting in the CID suite by nine. Stewart was perched on her desk for one of his informal chats. Wheeler looked up from her computer and saw that once again he looked pristine in a dove-grey suit. She instinctively touched her own trousers – same outfit as yesterday. She felt slightly grubby, thought maybe the smell from the greasy breakfast she’d shared with Ross still clung to her. They were in their way to see George Grey but Stewart obviously wanted something. ‘Boss?’

Stewart stared down at her. ‘The Grim Reaper will be in my office in ten minutes. Make it worth my while seeing the little gremlin and throw him a bone. What have you got?’

Wheeler could smell his citrus aftershave, felt that he was sitting too close. She sat back in her seat, felt the blush creeping up her face. ‘Love to, boss,’ she tapped a pile of reports, ‘but still sifting through the evidence. Going through the house to house again as you suggested, but it seems no one saw anything suspicious.’

‘Uh huh.’ Stewart waited.

‘That’s the thing. James Gilmore was nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently he was just a decent guy doing a decent job. But his death was completely out of the ordinary.’

‘Unless . . .’ said Ross.

‘Go on.’

‘Paedophile?’ said Ross. ‘Would account for the way he died – someone out for revenge?’

‘Evidence?’

‘There were a couple of calls that came in from pay phones—’

‘From?’

‘Haven’t traced them yet, boss, but one caller warned us about Gilmore not being one of the good guys. The other linked him to Arthur Wright, London.’

‘Who?’

Ross shrugged. ‘Came up blank but I’ll keep digging.’

‘Get the calls traced.’

‘Will do.’

‘Any other theories?’ Stewart waited.

‘Could’ve been a dealer? He worked city-wide, so it’s pretty good cover?’ Robertson offered.

‘Gilmore was a supplier?’ Boyd sounded doubtful. ‘And going up against the McGregors and the Tenants, not to mention the independent entrepreneurial nutters out there?’

‘No, maybe not going up against them but working for them,’ said Robertson. ‘If Gilmore got himself involved in something that he shouldn’t have, it may be that he paid the price.’

‘Okay,’ said Stewart, ‘so, we’ve nothing. Let’s start something.’

‘Boss?’

Stewart cleared his throat. ‘I’ll tell Grim to write up an article about our zero-tolerance approach in the lead-up to Christmas. We’ll make it known that we’ll be targeting all known offenders.’

‘Everyone, boss?’ Ross was already doing the maths.

‘We’ll tell them it’s everyone. In reality it’ll just be the usual scum who’ll be stopped and searched.’

Wheeler warmed to the idea. ‘Make it difficult for them to do their not-so-legitimate business.’

Stewart smiled at her. ‘Exactly, we make their daily life complete shite and so they’ll need to get us off their back. Someone knows something about this murder; it didn’t happen in isolation. The bloodied clothes the killer was wearing, the car he used. Someone must be boasting about it to their pals. Something has to give.’ He crossed to the window, looked out at the grey sky. ‘There’s a dozen incentives already in place that this can easily dovetail in with.’

‘Stop and search is never popular,’ said Wheeler.

‘We’re not trying to be popular,’ replied Stewart. ‘We’re trying to be a pain in the backside. This’ll hit the dealers and if we hit them hard enough they’d grass up their own granny, never mind whoever did Gilmore.’

‘So we hassle them until they snap?’ said Boyd.

‘Exactly. We know the main players and their teams – let’s make them uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Okay, let’s go with that. I’ll get the word out via Grim and the Chronicle. Might as well try to shake things up a bit.’ Stewart adjusted his tie and marched to the door. Wheeler watched him leave the room, thinking that he was right. They had nothing new and they had nothing to lose by stirring up some bad feeling.

‘You not going through to watch the performance, then? See the big man in action?’ Ross grinned at her, fanning his hand in front of his face. ‘You warm? Only you look a bit flushed.’

Wheeler stood, pushed the reports to the side. ‘Shut it, you. I’m off to the loo, then we’re having a chat with George Grey.’

When she passed Stewart’s office, the door was open and he was sitting behind his desk. Grim was seated on a hard chair facing Stewart. She heard them begin.

‘Good to see you, Grim,’ said Stewart.

‘Likewise, Stewart.’

Neither managed to convey even a hint of sincerity.

‘Okay, enough with the pleasantries – let’s get on. Grim, I want you to run an article on a police crackdown, a type of zero-tolerance, and here’s why.’

Wheeler walked on, made a quick stop at the loo and marched back to her desk. ‘Ross, we’re off to see George Grey.’

Wheeler and Ross pulled up outside a row of tenement buildings that were not scheduled for demolition. But should have been. Ross killed the engine. ‘Let’s give it a second, see if the rain goes off a bit.’ He looked at the houses. ‘We need one of those wee sanitising units. This place is worse than the scheme at Watervale.’

‘Can’t all be trendy West Enders like yourself, Ross.’

‘Right enough.’ He turned to her. ‘Rovers got beat last night.’

Wheeler laughed. ‘So? Is that not a regular occurrence? Surely you can’t be surprised?’

‘Fair enough.’ He paused, stared out at the rain. ‘You out and about yourself?’

She looked at him. ‘Well I wasn’t out watching football, if that’s what you’re asking.’

He waited, ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Good time?’

Wheeler stepped out of the car. ‘I told you, I went to a lecture on brain scans.’

He waited.

She slammed the door.

He grunted, got out the other side, automatically smoothed down his hair.

She watched him. ‘Don’t think the photographers will be here today. Besides, there’s another bit of dog hair on your jacket. Either your grooming’s slipping or you’re letting that mutt sleep on everything.’

‘Shit.’ He brushed the hairs from his jacket and was locking the door when the half-brick sailed by his head and smashed onto the bonnet of the car. Wheeler spun round and saw three boys running into one of the tenement buildings. The taller of them turned back, his voice ferocious, ‘Fucking scumbag pigs!’ A smaller boy shouted, ‘Oink, oink.’ The third wasn’t quite so humorous: ‘Next time the brick’ll kill you.’ He paused, spat on the ground then followed his friends into the close.

She looked at Ross. ‘It’s a welcome of sorts.’

Ross grabbed the brick and chucked it onto the ground. ‘No point going after them, is there?’

‘What for? We’ll be led a merry dance round the houses. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’ She walked into the mouth of the close. ‘George Grey’s house is on the ground floor, so we’re probably not going to be ambushed.’ Wheeler paused outside a wooden door; the paint was peeling and the central glass panel had been severely cracked and gaffa-taped back together, giving a warped mosaic effect. Wheeler grimaced. ‘I’m thinking industrial chic – what do you think?’

Ross stood beside her and whined, ‘I haven’t even had a chance to digest my breakfast before that crappy wee welcoming committee outside.’

She patted his arm. ‘Aw diddums is all sensitive again. The big boys upset you? Never mind, I’ll buy you coffee and a bun later if you’re good.’ She knocked hard and waited.

A boy of around sixteen answered.

‘You George Grey, son?’

The boy nodded, turned back and shouted into the house, ‘It’s the polis.’

Wheeler looked at Ross. ‘Are we that obvious?’ They flashed their ID but the boy had already turned away.

They followed the boy into a dank hallway, the wallpaper flaked and torn, and through into a cramped room. The smell of damp hung in the air. George stood in the filthy kitchen. ‘I’m just havin’ ma breakfast. That okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘You want some?’

They shook their heads. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Wheeler waited while he scraped the dregs from a margarine tub and smoothed it over two pieces of pan bread, then took a handful of crisps from an opened packet and laid them on the bread. Squeezed on a good dollop of budget-range tomato ketchup, put the two slices of bread together and scrunched down hard. Opened a can of Irn-Bru and slurped about half of it down before looking up at them. ‘School said you’d come and talk to me.’ He walked through into the sitting room. ‘Whit aboot?’

Wheeler and Ross followed him into the room. Wheeler tried to ignore the cloying smell of urine and stale vomit and walked towards the sofa. She perched herself on the arm, avoiding the worst of the damp and mould. She battled to understand why social services couldn’t improve a place like this. Fumigate it maybe. But then what? Demolition would be an answer.

‘We need to have a wee word about Mr Gilmore. But it can wait till you’ve finished your breakfast.’

She watched George Grey start on his sandwich. He was about five-five. Thin, greasy strands of hair fell in defeated layers over a bony forehead. He wasn’t just skinny, he was painfully emaciated. He settled himself on a greasy beanbag and stared at her. Dark eyes peered out from his gaunt face. They were the darkest blue she had ever seen, but she had never seen an expression so lacking in hope, so soulless. If she had to name it, George Grey was the walking dead. She sighed; he was like other terminally neglected children, whose life was over before it had really begun. A part of him had already died. What remained was what she had to interview.

She shifted on the arm of the sofa, listened to someone retch in the bathroom above, heard the cistern flush, then a hacking cough sound, until finally she heard footsteps on the bare stairs. A skeletal man wearing a stained vest and jogging bottoms wheezed his way into the room and stood in front of her.

‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is my colleague DI Ross.’ They flashed their ID again.

The man ignored their cards. ‘The filth? The school said you’d be round. Whit’s the matter, you cannae solve sumthin’ and you want to pick on George?’

‘We just need to ask your step-son a couple of questions.’

‘See, that’s where you’re wrong, right off, hen. I’m no his step-da. His da scarpered long ago. My name’s MacIntyre, William MacIntyre, and,’ he pointed to George with his right hand showing the three stumps that used to be fingers, ‘that there’s no step-wean o’ mine.’

Ross coughed. ‘Guardian?’

‘Ah live wi’ his ma. Is that good enough fur you?’ He leaned in towards her and Wheeler got the benefit of a mouth full of decaying teeth. She stared instead at the gnarled stumps. Wheeler wondered how he had lost the fingers; it didn’t look like they had been created by professional medical intervention. She turned away and faced George, waited a second until he had swallowed the last of his drink, then she began.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Mr Gilmore was found dead at his home on Monday evening.’

George nodded. ‘Aye, I heard he copped it.’

‘Whit? Gilmore’s deid?’ MacIntyre flopped onto the sofa.

‘You knew him, Mr MacIntyre?’

‘No well – he worked with George though, didn’t he?’

George nodded.

‘Can you remember the last time you saw him, George?’

‘Last week, I think it was Tuesday.’ He paused. ‘Aye it was Tuesday, ’cause right after I talked to him I had to go and get changed. We had P.E.’

‘Was there anything unusual about him? Did he seem nervous or tense?’

‘Naw.’

‘How’d he croak it?’ MacIntyre’s voice was low. Feral, sleekit. His left hand rubbed at the stumps, massaging the wrinkled skin.

Wheeler stared at him. ‘You didn’t see it reported on the telly or read anything in the Chronicle about it?’

MacIntyre sniffed and then coughed up a ball of phlegm, rolled it around his mouth, swallowed. ‘Flu, hen, I’ve been out of the game for a few days.’

Wheeler had noticed the track marks, fresh, not old. Heroin, just as Nancy Paton had told them. If MacIntyre had been out of it for a few days it was because he’d scored enough to keep him in his own personal nirvana. ‘Is Mrs Grey able to speak with us?’

He jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘She’s in her bed – she’s got a dose of the flu as well, right enough.’ He gnawed on his thumb nail. ‘So, how’d he die, then? Whit happened?’

She heard the tremor in his voice. Noted it. Watched George take his empty can of Irn-Bru into the kitchen, heard him scrunch it into the bin, and she kept her voice low while watching MacIntyre’s reaction. ‘He was found murdered in his home, Mr MacIntyre.’

‘Not very nice.’ Ross stared at MacIntyre, watching his pale face turn yellow.

‘Fuckssake.’ MacIntyre shuddered, then he rounded on them. ‘And you arses are trying to pin it on George, is that it?’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Cause that’s what pigs dae.’ MacIntyre glowered at her like a malevolent gargoyle.

‘We’re just trying to find out if Mr Gilmore seemed in any way different over the past few weeks. It might help us with our enquiries.’

‘Well, George’s telt you he wis jist the same, noo beat it. Scram.’ MacIntyre started shaking, first his hands, then his arms; finally his whole body was twitching. George stood in the doorway watching.

Wheeler stood. ‘Can you remember anything unusual about Mr Gilmore, George? Hear of anyone threaten him or someone who might want to harm him?’

The boy stared at the stained carpet, his voice still. ‘Don’t know nothing about him. Hardly ever saw him.’

She tried for eye contact. ‘You sure?’

George blinked at the carpet. ‘Sure.’

Outside the weather had begun in earnest; sleet fell in horizontal sheets as they made their way back to the car.

‘Well, William MacIntyre’s a right ladies’ man – what a charmer. Ross, he could teach you a thing or two.’

‘Aye. I thought so.’

‘He was awful freaked about Gilmore’s death, considering that he never really knew the man.’

‘Aye, I thought he looked a bit too shaken up about someone he’d barely known. Doesn’t seem the type to waste time with emotions. Doesn’t figure.’

‘Agreed. He knows more than he’s letting on.’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell with junkies. See the shaking – he needed his fix. And all that stuff about flu was complete bollocks.’

‘Flu symptoms,’ she agreed, ‘otherwise known as withdrawal symptoms.’

Ross patted his stomach. ‘Is it time for our coffee pow-wow yet?’

‘You still needing a wee coffee after all that food earlier?’

‘I was up early.’

‘Running?’

‘Running, then walking the dog – can’t all be swanning about at arty-farty lectures.’

‘Wimp.’

‘I’m starved.’

‘Your metabolism’s out of whack.’

‘It’s pretty efficient,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s all the exercise.’

She took out her phone. ‘I’ll phone in for a quick recce to see if there’s been any developments.’

‘Yeah, we can’t be expected to do all the work.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re a skiver, Ross.’

‘I’m hurt. I was at the station till late last night.’

‘Turn up anything?’

‘Just the two calls.’

She settled herself into the car, punched in the number for the station. ‘I’m impressed, Ross. You’ll soon just about have earned your acting DI.’

He ignored her, drove quickly but made sure he kept inside the speed limit. Listened to Wheeler speak with Boyd.

Twenty minutes later Wheeler and Ross sat in the back of the café. They ordered two coffees and two Danish pastries.

‘I’ll be back in a jiff.’ Ross raced out.

He was back before the coffee arrived.

‘What’s wrong? Scared I’d ask you to pay?’

‘Nope, just needed to get some of this.’ He held up a small spray-bottle of hand sanitiser. ‘Want some?’

She shook her head. ‘Once again. You’re a wimp.’

He squirted gel onto both palms and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘No, but MacIntyre’s house, bloody hell. I felt itchy just sitting there. Lice, nits and fleas, take your pick.’

‘I know, but what the head teacher said was right – George Grey is a poor wee soul. Do you think he could have had anything to do with Gilmore’s death?’

‘Stranger things,’ Ross said as the coffee and buns arrived, ‘stranger things.’

Chapter 26

Doyle sipped scalding black coffee and then spoke. ‘Yeah, Weirdo, he’s on his way in to see me. Tell Manky good work.’ He switched off the phone and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

Smithy waddled across the carpet, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit top, voice chirpy. ‘Mr D, you needed to see me?’

Doyle studied the walk, thought he detected a hint of swagger. Kept his voice reasonable. ‘Tell me Smithy, have you got a death wish?’

The hint of a swagger disappeared. ‘I’m not with you?’

‘Easy enough question, Smithy.’

Silence.

‘HAVE YOU GOT A FUCKING DEATH WISH?’

Smithy looked at the carpet, then at the Gaggia, looking for an answer, any answer. Came up with none. Decided on the direct approach. ‘No?’

Doyle stared at him. ‘See, that’s not how it appears. Unless I’ve got it wrong, I run this outfit. Right?’

‘Right, Mr Doyle.’

‘And so when I hear about a shitty fat toerag like you going it alone, ACTING SOLO, then I get concerned.’

Confusion. Panic. A flash of guilt. Tried to hide it. Failed. ‘I never, I never sold anything on, honest.’ He moved from foot to foot. Scratched his neck. Coughed.

‘I’m not talking about the merchandise, Smithy.’ Doyle waited.

Eventually, ‘I never said nothing to Stella, Mr Doyle, honest. I mean she’s a lovely lassie and all that but I never . . . honest . . . no’ for a minute . . .’

‘I’m no’ talking about Stella. Take a minute, Smithy, have a think. When were you last a right arse? Care to hazard a guess?’

Doyle watched Smithy’s face contort. Heard his breathing quicken. Could almost smell the sweat. Waited. Then waited some more. Eventually he put him out of his misery. ‘See that’s a worry, that you can’t remember being an arse.’

Smithy rubbed a hand across the fold of fat that was his neck. His fingers glistened with sweat.

‘I’m talking about scaring two wee boys half to death last night. Or can you not remember driving my four-by-four across waste ground? Does it not ring any bells?’ Doyle watched the colour spread up Smithy’s neck, waited until his face and neck were inflamed before adding, ‘See, that makes me angry.’

‘I was just showing some initiative.’ His voice a squeak.

‘You, Smithy, aren’t paid to think. You’re certainly not paid to act out your own wee gangster fantasies. You’re paid to do what I tell you. That’s all.’

Smithy sighed, relieved. ‘Aye, right ye are, Mr Doyle. Just thought the wee shits needed a scare.’ Rubbed some more sweat from his neck. Wiped his damp fingers on the sleeve of his fleece.

‘How so?’

‘I asked them if they’d taken anything from Gilmore’s. Said no.’

‘You believe them?’

Relaxed smirk. ‘Hard to tell with them wee pricks.’

‘Is that right?’

Smithy heard the tone. Stopped talking. Stopped smirking. Almost stopped breathing.

‘So you warned them off?’

Smithy nodded.

‘So, what next? They’ll go home and tell their wee pals, what exactly?’

‘Not to squeal.’

‘Or else, what?’

Chest out, flabby thumb prodding his chest. ‘They’ll get it from me.’

‘And then the polis will come after you?’

‘Mibbe.’ The smirk was back in place. ‘But I’ll no say anything. I’ll stay schtum.’ Smithy made a zipping gesture across his mouth.

‘Is that right?’

Again the tone.

Smithy swallowed.

‘And when the polis can’t be arsed wasting their time going after a fuck-up like you, they’ll aim a bit higher. Mibbe they’ll ask around, see who you work for and then mibbe they’ll come and pay me a wee visit? Seeing as now they have a convenient link from me to James Gilmore via the two wee boys, thanks to you.’

Smithy tried to steady himself but the sway was way too obvious.

Chapter 27

The smell in the CID suite was of dust, dampness and old ghosts. Two uniformed officers had joined Boyd and Robertson, who were working slowly and methodically through James Gilmore’s possessions. The seals on the cardboard boxes had been broken and the contents grouped into piles. Robertson sat at his desk in a fog of aftershave and began sifting through more papers. Old bank statements had been paperclipped together. ‘Nothing much out of the ordinary – mortgage, electricity and gas all paid by direct debit. A few cash withdrawals, usually fifty or sixty pounds at a time. If anything was stolen, it doesn’t look like they managed to get very far. Certainly, no one’s hacked into Gilmore’s account.’ Robertson continued muttering to himself.

Boyd stood up, stretched and headed towards the kettle; the uniforms had made their own coffee earlier so he turned to Robertson: ‘You want a coffee?’

Silence. Robertson kept on reading.

‘Hey, Robertson, you’re miles away.’

Robertson glanced up. ‘What?’

‘You want a coffee?’

‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ He turned back to his box. ‘You seen the secondment that’s up for grabs?’

Boyd scooped two heaped spoonfuls of coffee into a greasy mug. ‘Nope, but you have – can’t wait for promotion to come around?’

Robertson shrugged. ‘What can I say, I’m ambitious. Need to get on.’

‘I’m too knackered to even think of it.’

‘You look shattered.’

‘Cheers for that. It’s the new girlfriend – she’s keeping me up all night.’

Robertson pursed his lips, turned away, busied himself. ‘What about your wife?’

‘I never mention the new girlfriend; it’d only upset her.’

Stewart strode into the room. ‘Remember, you two, press conference in an hour. Mind and scrub up. Boyd, try to look less like a criminal waster and more like a police officer.’

Boyd smiled. ‘Will do.’ He nodded to a female officer in uniform who’d come into the room. ‘You want to give me a hand going through this stuff?’ He handed her a pile of papers, receipts, bills and envelopes. There was a stack of parking tickets on top. ‘Sorry it smells a bit. His house was damp.’

She took the pile and sat at a desk, began sorting.

Boyd took his coffee and began flicking through the photographs in another box. There were old cards, scraps of notepaper that Gilmore had scribbled on. Boyd held up an old birthday card – the writing inside was thick, etched into the paper. It was signed, ‘Moira and Murdo Gilmore. Your parents.’

‘Who signs birthday cards “your parents”?’ He showed it to the female officer.

‘This it then?’ A young constable had entered the room and stood amidst the boxes.

‘’Fraid so.’ Boyd nodded to a box. ‘Everything that was found has been recorded and now we get to have a nosy through.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Musty. Damp.’

‘Depressing,’ muttered the constable, looking through the contents of the box. ‘It’s not much to show for a life, is it?’ He scanned the pile. ‘Old bits of paper, parking tickets, stuff cut out of magazines. A pile of old photography magazines. Why bother? It’s the digital age.’

‘He seemed to be stuck in a different era,’ Boyd agreed, dredging through more paperwork.

‘Even my wee granny has a camera on her phone and she’s ancient.’ The constable kept searching.

‘Maybe he liked the romance of developing his own photographs? Ever heard of Avedon, Arnold, Doisneau?’

‘No,’ replied the constable.

‘Christ, that makes me feel old.’ Boyd had stopped sifting and had begun searching through his desk for biscuits. Found some.

‘This stuff seems to echo the house though,’ said Robertson. ‘Everything’s kind of dying. I mean it’s all so tatty, so tired.’ Robertson sounded depressed. ‘A life not lived to the full.’

‘Garbage really,’ the constable offered. ‘Why did he even want to keep all of this?’

‘People do though, don’t they, they stuff it all in the attic or the garage. Hoarders. It’s a condition,’ suggested Boyd.

‘It’s all rubbish though, isn’t it?’ the constable repeated.

‘Garbage,’ agreed Boyd, glancing through a dusty photograph album. ‘Gilmore as a child on a bike . . . at school . . . class photograph . . . university graduation . . . someone’s wedding.’ Gilmore was five foot six, and was thin with wary eyes. In the photographs he wore checked shirts, grey ties, tweed jackets. Nothing bright, nothing stylish. It seemed that James Gilmore had never wanted to stand out. ‘Nondescript.’ Boyd closed the album. ‘Just the same information we heard from the schools.’ He glanced at Robertson. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing that stands out, no big gambling debts, no Sky sports package. Gets through a fair bit of cash though.’ He flicked through the statements. ‘Doesn’t go into overdraft but cuts it fine every month. I didn’t see much in the house to reflect this.’

‘Maybe he paid for his mother’s care?’ said Boyd.

‘No, she’s a woman with means; seems her husband Murdo was a very successful academic – he’s written quite a few textbooks and left her with more than enough for her care.’

‘Bookies?’ suggested Boyd.

‘Then he was on a losing streak.’

‘In more ways than one.’

An hour later and they had left the uniforms to continue. Boyd was working at his computer and Robertson was beginning to work on the set of keys.

Stewart strolled into the room, perched himself on the edge of a desk. ‘I’ve put the press conference back half an hour,’ he tapped one foot impatiently, ‘so what’ve we got?’

Robertson patted the papers on his desk. ‘Just finished trawling through this lot, boss. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next up I’ll check the keys, see if I can locate where they were used.’ He held up a key with an electronic tag attached. This looks like the most interesting.’

‘A lock-up, maybe, or a storage unit?’

‘Nothing about the company, no name.’

‘Odd.’

‘I’ll call round, see if I can find out which companies use this kind of tag.’

Stewart turned to Boyd. ‘Anything?’

Boyd put down his second cup of coffee and tapped the computer screen. ‘Still going through Gilmore’s diary. He was at a charity do last month at the River Hotel.’

‘Expensive place,’ said Stewart.

‘Fundraiser for a kids’ charity,’ Boyd scrolled down the screen, ‘the twenty-second of November.’

‘And?’ Stewart asked.

‘High-profile dinner, auction and everything. Lord Provost and loads of high heid yins at it. But only a couple of folk we’re interested in.’ He scrolled down the page and clicked on the mouse. A slide show began and he clicked through it until he found what he was looking for. He turned the screen towards Stewart.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Overview of the tables, see,’ he pointed, ‘here and here.’

Stewart looked at the picture while Boyd talked him through his find. ‘Here’s Andy Doyle holding court at one table.’ Stewart stared at the picture; Doyle was chatting, hands mid-air, making a point to a thin man seated next to him. On the other side of Doyle, Stella was wearing an off-the-shoulder silver dress that showed too much cleavage. Her eyes were shining as she smiled at Doyle.

‘And look at this,’ Boyd continued. ‘James Gilmore is at a table on the other side of the room.’

‘Excellent, Boyd. Now all we need is to ID the guy next to Doyle.’

Boyd tapped the screen animatedly. ‘I know who he is, boss. The guy Doyle’s talking to is Jay Haddington. He’s some kind of a big-shot producer – I heard he was trying to raise money for his next project.’

‘I want to speak to Jay Haddington; get hold of him, Boyd,’ said Stewart.

‘Will do, boss.’ Boyd reached for the phone.

‘How come you know all this, Boyd? I mean about the producer guy?’ Stewart sounded impressed.

‘My girlfriend’s in the business, boss.’

Stewart stood, brushed an imaginary fleck of dust from his pristine suit. ‘Keep digging. I’ll call Wheeler, update her on the development, get her to go speak to Doyle. And remember the press conference in half an hour – you two will be on show.’ He strode out of the room.

Wheeler was finishing her coffee when she heard a text go through to her phone. Checked it. Her sister.

‘Anything wrong?’ Ross scoffed the last of his pastry.

‘My nephew’s gone AWOL again. I met up with him, told him to keep in touch with his mother. Promised he would. Lying wee shite can’t be bothered.’

‘Happens at uni all the time – first time away from home, everyone goes a bit mental. It’s kind of compulsory.’

‘You talking from experience then?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

‘I know it’s bloody normal, but try telling that to his muppet of a mother. She’s imagining him lying in the gutter, with his head bashed in.’

‘Bit unlikely, given he’s only mixing with other students and probably the most dangerous thing he does is skive off lectures.’

‘Well he’s up to a bit more than that.’ She thought of Weirdo. Said nothing. She deleted the text – her sister would just have to grow up. Her mobile rang; she mouthed ‘Stewart’ to Ross and took the call.

‘Okay . . . Yeah . . . Will do.’ She finished the call and sat back in her seat. ‘Well. Boyd found something.’

‘What?’

‘He found a picture online, some big charity do at the River Hotel that Gilmore attended.’

‘So Gilmore had a social life after all. And expensive tastes.’

‘He wasn’t the only one at the do.’

‘Let me guess – he was there with a girlfriend?’

‘No, he went as a representative of the education establishment.’

‘And I’m guessing someone interesting was there, so, if not a girlfriend, a boyfriend?’

‘You’re rubbish, Ross. I’ll give you a clue: who lives beside a big tip?’

‘Andy Doyle was at the do?’

‘Indeed he was, our very own community-minded local businessman.’

‘We off to see him then?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Glad I’ve had a coffee.’

She knew what he meant. ‘Me too. Sets you up, doesn’t it?’

‘You driving?’

‘In this weather, what do you think?’