Текст книги "Riven"

Автор книги: A. J. McCreanor

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Wheeler moved carefully towards the corpse. Close up she could see the dead man’s face was a mass of pulp, the skin broken and raw. ‘He certainly annoyed somebody.’

The pathologist nodded. ‘He did that. He was already dead by the time the killer hung him up. A lot of extra effort – a dead weight like this would take a considerable amount of strength. Either that or the killer was bloody angry; the adrenaline in anger can give us almost inhuman strength.’

‘Somebody wanted to make a point.’ Ross glanced at the body and away again. ‘A warning maybe?’

Callum nodded. ‘Could be.’

‘What ETD do you have?’ Wheeler could smell stale blood and cupped her hand around her mouth before coughing discreetly into it.

‘Well, decomposition’s beginning and rigor’s advanced, so I’d say we’re talking about some time last night. Can’t be more specific at this time; I’ll know more when I get him back to the mortuary.’

‘He hardly looks human,’ she sighed. ‘So we’ve got his name and where he worked. Bit strange though, an educational psychologist ending up like this.’

‘Usually more gang-related,’ Ross said, ‘this kind of thing.’

Wheeler peered at the body. Dark eyes bulged back at her. ‘You think he got on the wrong side of one of the Glasgow families?’

Ross held out his hand, counting off each finger. ‘If it was drugs, the McGregor crew, or the Tenant clan, both are at loggerheads. Or one of the independents? Doyle or Jamieson? Any one of them could do this in a heartbeat.’

‘An educational psychologist though?’ Wheeler pursed her lips. ‘Are that lot not a bit out of his league?’

‘You thinking mistaken identity, somebody got the wrong guy?’ asked Ross.

She pointed to the corpse. ‘I think this was more personal. This amount of blood, they took their time.’ She looked around the room; it had morphed from someone’s home into a crime scene – everything was being photographed, bagged and tagged. She tried to see beyond the gore, tried to get some idea of who James Gilmore was, hoping that his home would give up some of its secrets. But there wasn’t much homeliness to the room; it appeared that, even before Gilmore had been murdered, the place had been slowly dying. The sofa was ancient, torn cushions exposing the inner foam padding. A threadbare carpet, filthy curtains. Everything old and worn and neglected. She turned away. ‘Whatever they’re paying educational psychologists these days clearly isn’t enough.’ She turned to Callum. ‘I don’t suppose they left the weapon behind?’

‘Nothing found in here I’m afraid Katherine – maybe they’ll find it out in the garden somewhere.’

‘If you had to guess . . .?’

‘If I had to guess, and I don’t like guessing, then I’d say the weapon was some sort of a bat, possibly baseball, and most certainly wooden, considering the presence of these splinters.’ He tweezered a tiny shard of wood from a pool of blood and held it up. ‘Could be made from ash, that’s the most usual, or if our killer went upmarket for his bat, it could be made from maple.’

Wheeler shook her head. ‘With so many baseball bats in circulation in the city, is it not about time we had a few actual teams going?’

‘I’m done here.’ Callum stood with a groan. ‘Want a lift back in Jessica? I don’t mind detouring to the station. For you, Katherine, anything.’

Wheeler tutted. ‘You still naming your cars, Callum? Is that not a wee bit immature?’

‘I name all of my vehicles.’

‘Thought you’d have grown out of it by now. Thanks, but I’ll go back with Ross.’

‘Suit yourself, but I’ll keep her on the road.’

Ross groaned. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Ignore him,’ said Wheeler, ‘he’s feeling tired and emotional. We’ll be at the PM tomorrow. What time?’

‘I’ll let you know – we’re backed up just now, but I’ll try to give him priority. Although,’ he paused, ‘I think it’s obvious . . .’

She cut him off, ‘I know, I know, it’s obvious what happened.’

‘Indeed it is. A man was battered to death. All you need to do is find out the “who” and the “why”.’

She chewed her bottom lip as she followed him into the hall. Her phone bleeped again. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen – her sister again. She flicked it off as she passed three young SOCOs. Overheard one whisper to Ross, ‘Haddy, get it? Short for haddock.’

Behind her Ross tutted, ‘Aye, I get it. Fish tea. He’s been battered.’

At least their laughter was subdued.

Outside, Callum pointed at the house. ‘You see the extra-wide doorway?’

She saw it.

‘This place was the old slaughterhouse and that’s where they herded the cattle in for slaughter. Of course it’s been renovated since then and that stained glass put in. It’s totally out of character with the building. Not that there’s much left of anything really – it’s all a bit of a wreck. But the hook the body was found hanging on is an original feature and would have been used to tether the animals before they were killed.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that lift, Katherine?’

‘Sure.’ She watched Callum lumber towards his car, felt herself breathe in the cold damp air and was grateful to be out of the house, away from the atmosphere of evil. She inhaled again, deeper this time, bringing the freezing air low into her lungs, enjoying the shock it gave her system. She watched the crime-scene photographer come out of the house and continue taking pictures before she half turned back to the house and opened her mouth to yell, but he was already striding towards her, long legs covering the ground easily. ‘No need to shout,’ Ross said, ‘I’m here already. We’re going to interview the two boys. Right?’

She smiled at him. ‘Bingo.’

Chapter 3

Ross turned the car into the station car park and braked sharply. ‘Christ, I nearly killed the wee shite’.

The wee shite in question, Graham Reaper, was chief reporter with the Glasgow Evening Chronicle and he flashed a crooked smile before signalling to his photographer to get a picture of the cops. He already had the headline in mind: Gruesome Find in Glasgow’s East End! Murder Inquiry Begins.

‘You ever wonder how Grim gets here so fast?’ Ross parked the car, pausing to smooth down his hair before releasing his seat belt.

‘Aye, he’s being tipped off and if Stewart ever finds out who the hell’s doing it, they’ll be fucked.’ She glanced at him. ‘You always so worried about your appearance?’

‘Well, if I’m going to be in the paper . . . there’s no harm in looking my best. You never know who’ll see it.’

‘You single again?’

‘I know it’s hard to believe.’

‘What happened to the last girlfriend – what was her name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Aye, her. What happened?’

‘The usual.’

‘The usual in that she woke up one day and realised that you’re a numpty?’

Ross tried for a hurt look. ‘The usual in that she started blethering on about rings, future plans, kids. She even mentioned coming off the pill. That sort of shite.’ He mimed putting two fingers down his throat and gagging.

‘You not want a wee “mini-you”? Thought that would be right up your street.’

‘No way. I’m too young. In my prime.’ He threw open the door, blinked back the flash from the camera. He fixed a ‘no comment’ smile to his face and made for the door.

She had already reached it when the reporter caught up with her. ‘So, a murder inquiry, Inspector Wheeler – any comment?’

‘You know better than to ask for anything at this point, Grim; there’ll be an official statement later and if you’re really lucky Stewart will throw you a press conference by mid-week.’

‘Aye but is it gang-related? It must be, surely? Drugs? A turf war? What’s your take on it?’

‘See the above answer.’

‘Got anything to do with Maurice Mason being released?’ he persisted. ‘Christ sake hen, gimme something.’

She smiled.

‘Come on, eh? Man needs to make a living here. Give me a break, I’m only doing my job.’

‘Well, okay Grim,’ she stopped and turned towards him, ‘but you first. You tell me who called you about this, who’s giving you the heads up on these cases?’

Grim gave her a sly smile. ‘You know I cannae reveal my sources hen. It wouldn’t be professional.’

‘That right?’ she asked, holding open the station door to let Ross go inside.

‘Aye,’ Grim made to follow her, ‘but maybe we could have a wee chat, off the record like?’

Wheeler walked into the station and slammed the door, heard Grim curse her. Shrugged, ‘Let the ugly wee runt get soaked.’

‘Still but,’ Ross stood beside her, shaking his head like a dog who’d just returned from a walk in the rain.

She stood beside him, the rain drops from her boots leaking onto the cracked linoleum. ‘I know, I know.’

‘Mason,’ said Ross.

Tommy Cunningham sat behind the desk. ‘That bastard got out early.’

‘Aye, he did, TC,’ she agreed. ‘I wonder what he’ll be up to now he no longer has his own rent-a-thug empire.’

Cunningham scowled. ‘He’ll be up to his old tricks again.’

She walked to the desk and was signing the pool car back in before she continued, ‘Mason gets released from Barlinnie and James Gilmore gets battered to death in what was his territory. We already know Mason expresses himself best with his knuckles.’

‘Who’s Mason got history with?’ Ross continued. ‘The Tenant clan? McGregor’s lot? Or a freelancer, maybe Andy Doyle or Roddy Jamieson?’

‘Mason’s always been a freelancer, can’t seem to get on with folk. Saying that, he’s probably got history with half the freelance thugs in the city, Jamieson and Doyle included.’

‘Doyle’s the most ambitious,’ said Ross. ‘His star’s on the ascendant.’

‘True. But he stays on his own turf. Well, so far.’

‘The others?’

‘The Tenants and McGregors are way more insular. Unless Mason’s become part of their setup and I doubt that; it’s family members only. He’d have to marry in, it’s that tight-knit in both families.’

‘Okay but I still can’t help thinking it’s a hell of a coincidence. Mason gets out and someone gets murdered.’

‘Trouble is, this part of the city has a bit of an overlap. Tenants to the north, Jamieson’s crew to the south – around here’s a bit of a no-man’s-land.’

‘Bandit country.’

She stopped in the corridor. ‘Besides, Mason’s gone AWOL. He got out of the Bar-L okay, but apparently he never made it home to his beloved.’

‘A blonde tart named Lizzie Coughlin,’ Ross said. ‘Apparently she’s stayed faithful, turned up for weekly visits, played the supportive partner all these years.’

‘Any relation to Kenny Coughlin?’

‘His daughter.’

‘But Mason skipped the big reunion. Why? After all that time, where does he have to be that’s so important he doesn’t make it home? Unless someone got to him first?’

Ross pursed his lips.

‘Exactly my point. It’s suspicious.’

‘Does it have to be? He was never a class act from what I heard, so maybe he’s out drinking and whoring. Three and a half years is a long time to be celibate.’

‘You think he’s out partying?’ Wheeler thought about it. ‘Maybe, but he could be in more trouble than suffering a bit of a hangover.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you be out on the razz if you’d been locked up for years?’

‘I think he’d still want to see Lizzie, especially if he’s been celibate for all that time.’

‘True,’ agreed Ross. ‘What’s the point in paying for it when you can get it for free?’

Wheeler slapped his arm. ‘God, it’s a wonder a romantic like you is still single.’

Ross started up the stairs. ‘I think he’s involved – it’s too much of a coincidence. Mason gets out, then there’s this.’

‘Okay, so let’s go have a chat with the two boys, see if they give us anything. See if there’s a link from Mason to Gilmore.’ She pushed open the door to the CID suite.

‘Or to one of the other lot.’ He followed her.

‘That would be a result.’ She looked at Boyd. ‘The two boys ready?’

‘DCI Stewart’s going to interview them, says there’s another interview he wants you to do.’

She dumped her wet coat on the back of a chair; she’d learned in the army how to take orders. Her mobile rang. She recognised the number – her sister again. Wheeler heard it beep. A text. She glanced at it.

Why r u not answering? Jason’s not returning my calls. I’m SICK with worry. I think he’s in TROUBLE.

‘Problem?’ asked Ross.

‘My bloody sister’s paranoid about her son Jason, going off to Glasgow University and into the big bad world. We’ve never been close and now that he’s in Glasgow she pretty much wants me to stalk him.’

‘I take it you’re not one big happy family?’ Ross asked.

‘We’re not close.’ She turned away, unwilling to explain. Their father had died in a road accident when they were toddlers and their mother died when they were teenagers. After her mother’s death Wheeler had her first tattoo done, in gothic script between her shoulder blades – Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est (life is more than merely staying alive) – and enlisted in the army. Years later, after her last tour of yet another war-torn country, she’d celebrated leaving the army with a final tattoo, Omnia causa fiunt (everything happens for a reason). It was a fairytale she hoped would negate the reality of what she’d seen. Too much had happened for no reason. Meanwhile, Jo had met and married Simon Thorne, a Somerset farmer, and twenty years of polite distance between the sisters had followed, until now, when Jason had landed on Wheeler’s patch. Wheeler watched Ross leave the CID suite, then she deleted the text.

Chapter 4

Detective Chief Inspector Craig Stewart bumped into Ross in the corridor just outside one of the interview rooms. Stewart’s grey hair was shorn as usual, to a peak, and was still damp from the rain. His slate-grey eyes were shrewd. He wore a dark-blue suit, a pink-gold Rolex and a broad gold wedding band. He nodded to Ross. ‘I’ve a few minutes before my meeting with DI Wheeler. I’ve already interviewed the Wilson boy.’

‘Anything?’ asked Ross.

‘He was giving it the whole “I’m completely innocent” spiel. He should’ve thought that argument through before admitting that they were there to steal.’

‘He made a bad choice there,’ Ross muttered, ‘but do you think they’re in the frame for the murder?’

Stewart frowned. ‘I’m keeping an open mind. They’ve not a speck of blood on them and they have an alibi for last night, a Christmas party at the youth club. Apparently it’s all been uploaded onto Facebook; should be easy enough to check with the other kids who were there. We’re already on it. They’ve never been in trouble before and seem like okay kids, but you never know.’

‘Bloody bad luck if they just chanced on a dead body.’

‘Certainly it’s a coincidence.’

‘Confident?’

Stewart shrugged, ‘He seemed a bit fazed but not like you or I would be in their place at their age.’

‘Can’t imagine they did it – they’re surely not that stupid that they’d go back the next day and call it in. Then confess all to Robertson when he turned up.’

‘Agreed, so even if they’re just two boys intent on thieving, I’ll give them a bit of a fright, see if it manages to persuade them to get back on the straight and narrow.’ Stewart’s eyes creased. ‘You hear about them being on the bus?’

Ross sniggered.

‘So, I’m thinking that boys like that aren’t career criminals. Neither of them would last a day in the Bar-L.’

Ross made a cutting gesture across his throat. ‘They’d have no chance if they were put in with folk like Maurice Mason.’

Stewart’s lip curled at Mason’s name. ‘Agreed, so it’s our job to change the course of their lives. Sit in the observation room if you like. Give me your take on the wee lad. See if that body-language course you took has paid off.’ Stewart walked off, leaving a vaporous trail of aftershave lingering in the corridor.

Ross turned to his left. A few seconds later he settled himself into an uncomfortable moulded plastic chair and stared through the one-way mirror. Beside him, Robertson was already ensconced in an identical chair, toe tapping impatiently, staring ahead. Neither greeted the other.

After a few minutes, the interview began.

Alec Munroe sat hunched over a desk which was pockmarked with gouges and graffiti, an untouched mug of weak tea in front of him. He was picking at a weeping cold sore on his top lip. Every few seconds the tip of his tongue appeared, collecting a stray drop of blood. He swallowed hard. His eyes stayed on Stewart as he entered the room, sat at the desk, adjusted his cuffs and fiddled with one of his cufflinks. Boyd lumbered across the room, opened a package and put the tape into the machine. Burped loudly. Didn’t bother excusing himself.

Stewart began immediately, speaking clearly, noting the date, time and the participants in the room. He stared at the boy, kept his voice low. ‘So Alec, why don’t you start by talking me through the events leading up to you and your pal, Robert Wilson, finding the body of James Gilmore. I know that you’ve already told DS Robertson, but just humour me. Talk me through it.’

Munroe swallowed and looked first at Boyd, then back to Stewart. ‘Is there no supposed to be a lawyer here?’

Stewart gave a sorrowful smile and held out his hands, palms up. ‘Are you requesting legal representation now, son?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘Nuthin’, jist, see on the telly . . .?’ Munroe looked at Boyd. Boyd studied the floor.

‘You’re not on the telly, son,’ Stewart continued, ‘you’re not even being charged, we just want to know how you managed to stumble on a dead body. Remember your size eight and your pal’s size ten footprints are all we have at the scene of a murder.’ Good cop. Tone reasonable, but foot tapping impatiently on the lino. A clue to the bad cop about to emerge.

Alec Munroe started to snivel; small hiccupping sounds echoed around the room. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, wet running across self-inflicted, amateur tattoos – an eagle, a badly smudged creature which looked like it might have been intended to resemble a snake. All a mess.

Stewart leaned closer, whispered, ‘How did you manage to stumble upon a battered-to-death body?’

Silence.

‘How did you even know where Gilmore lived?’

Alec sounded confused. ‘We jist walked around a bit. It was jist . . . he told a few of us about the area he lived in . . . we walked around a bit,’ he repeated, ‘till eventually we found it.’

‘Do you understand what I’m saying here, son, ’cause this is serious stuff?’

Alec sniffed. Hiccupped. Wiped his hand across his eyes.

‘A dead body is the worst sort of trouble you can be in, you know?’

‘This wisnae meant tae happen.’

‘Okay, tell me what was meant to happen.’

‘Naw!’ Alec put his head in his hands.

Stewart leaned in at the boy and kept his tone even. ‘You will tell me what was meant to happen in that house, son. You will tell me everything. You understand?’

Munroe kept his head in his hands, refusing to look at Stewart.

Stewart leaned across the table, his voice cold. ‘And get on with it.’

In the room next door, Robertson was leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on knees, engrossed in what was happening through the wall. He licked his lips, head bent a little to the side, his features frozen in concentration, following Stewart’s every move.

On the other side of the glass Stewart sensed a change in the atmosphere, knew what it meant. Munroe had stopped snivelling, had decided to talk. Stewart stared at the boy and waited. He had all night if need be.

Eventually Munroe began, his voice a whisper. ‘We knew where he lived – he’d told some of the folk at school. No exactly the address but it’s a wee rutted track. Easy enough to find.’ He sniffed quietly.

Stewart sat back in his seat. ‘Go on.’

‘So we decided, that since he was going tae be at the parents’ night, that we’d go and—’

In the next room Ross’s chair scraped across the floor when he stood. He’d seen enough.

He was back at his desk in seconds.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Wheeler asked.

‘Watching Stewart in action, trying to change the course of the two boys’ lives or scaring them into a confession. Not sure which; either way, it’s not how I’d go about interviewing potential suspects.’

Wheeler sat back in her seat. ‘Right, so how he’s going about it? Good cop, bad cop stuff – I’ve seen him do it. It’s effective, Ross.’

‘Trouble is, it muddies the waters. What if one of them says he did it?’

‘Why would they, if they’re innocent?’

Ross pursed his lips. ‘Maybe they know who did it and they’re scared. Maybe it would be safer for one of them to cover for the killer. It’s too early to call. The boy’s body language says he didn’t do it.’

Wheeler chewed at the stray rag nail on her thumb as she looked at the few notes she had jotted down about James Gilmore. ‘I don’t think they’d hang around if they were guilty. They might be a wee bit slow but they’re not stupid.’

Ross sat at his desk, powered up his computer. ‘I think I pissed Stewart off.’

‘How so?’

‘I mentioned Maurice Mason getting out of the Bar-L. Stewart just about spat when I mentioned his name.’

‘How come he’s so pissed about Mason?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Mason got off with manslaughter.’

‘So? It’s a result. He was put away.’

‘Not the one Stewart was looking for – it was his case, remember? You know he has his own moral compass and according to it, Mason should have been done for murder. The boss is going for promotion and the top brass have long memories.’

Wheeler sat back in her chair, looked around the tired room, the flaking paint and the worn furniture and wondered how it was meant to inspire success. She rubbed her eyes. ‘Anyway, how long’s the interrogation going to be?’

‘Not long; it looked like Alec Munroe was just starting to unravel.’

‘Wee soul . . . what a nightmare, finding a dead body when all you’re trying to do is lift something to sell.’

A cough from the doorway cut her off. Stewart squared his shoulders. ‘I think you’ll find some of them are a wee bit more savvy than they appear, DI Wheeler. I think that Alec Munroe could get an Oscar for his performance in there, snivelling and sighing like a professional actor. If you’re right and they are just lost souls, then we should try to help get them back onto the right path. But let’s remember that they were there to thieve; they’re not innocent bystanders. He managed to talk to Robertson at the scene. Why?’ He beckoned to her. ‘A moment?’ He led the way to his office, settled himself behind his desk.

She stood waiting, glanced at the framed photographs on his desk. Him looking like a film star in every one. And his wife, Adrianne, looking the same.

Stewart steepled his fingers, pointing his manicured nails at the ceiling. Then he watched her for a second, licked his lips. ‘Wheeler, I think we need to focus on the school. Maybe the two wee muppets back there aren’t involved at all, but,’ he stared hard at her, ‘we still need to keep digging.’

She waited.

‘I think that probably the two boys aren’t involved but in that case we have to eliminate them. Their prints are in the house.’

‘But we can explain that.’

‘Let’s just hold it for the time being. I want you to go make a home visit.’

She knew what was coming even before he said it. A woman’s job.

‘We’re getting someone from Education Personnel out of their beds to get Gilmore’s records. Meantime the good news is that Watervale’s head teacher, Ms Paton, has been located; the bad news is she’s off to a family wedding in Canada first thing in the morning and so she needs to be interviewed tonight.’ He handed her a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘The head teacher’s also supplied us with Gilmore’s next of kin – his mother lives in a care home in Milngavie.’

‘Boss?’

‘She’s just coming round from an operation and is still groggy. The doctor says to wait until tomorrow when she can understand things a bit more.’

‘Surely she should be told first?’

‘Not while she can’t take it in. You can take Boyd or Ross with you to interview the head teacher. You know you’re great at getting information.’

She looked at him. ‘Woman’s intuition?’

He smiled. ‘What? I know you have your own way of working,’ he paused, ‘but for now though, let’s just agree to go with mine? Give it a go?’ He held eye contact a fraction too long.

Wheeler tried not to get involved with the smile, stared through the eye contact, telling herself that she was imagining it, that he did trust her to do a good job, that he wasn’t just giving her the soft option. But, a jaunt to the West End to interview the head teacher was taking her out of the loop, so she kept her voice equally smooth. ‘With respect, boss . . . I’d rather stay here and—’

He didn’t bother trying another smile. ‘I like your enthusiasm, Wheeler, but the team are already on to it. They’re good cops; if there’s anything there, they’ll spot it.’

‘And I wouldn’t?’

‘Wheeler, we both know you’re headed for the top – maybe give others a wee chance to shine? Anyway, the briefing’s first thing in the morning, seven a.m. sharp. We’ll share all the information we’ve collected then.’ He paused. ‘And Wheeler?’

She sighed. ‘Boss?’

‘The head’s waiting.’

She gave a terse nod and closed the door quietly behind her.

They drove west on London Road, past the dirt track leading to Gilmore’s house, out past the new housing development, Belvedere Village, houses that replaced the old Belvedere Hospital, past the huge, looming structure that was the Sir Chris Hoy Velodrome, built for the Commonwealth Games. Out through Bridgton Cross and rows of tenement buildings, past the deserted Barras market, a ghost of itself when closed. They drove along the Gallowgate and the Trongate with its steeple inscribed Nemo me impune lacessit (no one provokes me with impunity) and on through the city centre, until they saw the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and the bohemian West End.

A few minutes later they stood in the rain outside Nancy Paton’s home. The wind was up and Wheeler shivered inside her coat. Her knock was loud.

Ross whistled. ‘Big difference between this and Gilmore’s place.’

‘Big difference.’

The red sandstone townhouse stood back from the road in its own neat, ornamental garden. Like Gilmore’s house it had stained-glass windows, but this time they were all intact, an orderly repetition of Mackintosh-type roses arching across each pane. The frames were painted green to match the door, which had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. A light went on in an upstairs room. They waited.

‘Classical architecture this, not like the station,’ Wheeler muttered, teeth chattering.

‘Aye, the station’s brutal. Bit like this weather.’

‘Dead on, Ross; I’m impressed.’

‘How come?’

‘Know how the station’s all concrete?’

‘Aye, so?’

‘When it’s built with poured concrete like that it’s called Brutalist architecture.’ Wheeler hugged her coat to her. ‘Thought you’d like to discuss some culture, seeing as we’re just standing out here freezing our arses off.’

‘Aye, it’s a comfort right enough, but I’d rather be inside getting a cup of tea and a heat.’

They saw a light go on in the top-floor landing and a few seconds later the hall light was switched on. The door was finally opened by a brittle-looking woman in her late fifties. She was small and scrawny and her cashmere cardigan hung around her thin frame. Her dark eyes were pitted in a face criss-crossed with lines. On both hands blue veins snaked towards her cuffs and ten curved talons were painted the same red as the slash of colour across her mouth. Her voice was the voice of someone with a lifelong love affair with nicotine. ‘Police? A Detective Chief Inspector Stewart called earlier and explained what has happened,’ she rasped. Paton studied their ID cards for a few seconds before finally, reluctantly, standing back. ‘Dreadful business all this. I suppose you’d better come in.’

‘Thanks.’ They followed her into a large reception hall.

‘This news about James, I can hardly believe it. Just awful, but as I explained to your colleague, I don’t really see how I can help.’

She crossed the hall, heels clicking on polished wood; the air was lemon-scented. A huge vase of silk roses dominated a slim glass-and-steel console table. She led them into a sitting room with bow windows offering a view across to the houses opposite. Paton fixed her bony spine on one sofa and beckoned for them to sit on the one opposite. No tea was offered. Wheeler sensed Ross’s disappointment.

‘So, the CID are visiting me at home about one of my staff.’

‘A dead member of staff,’ said Ross.

‘Suppose you tell me what it is you need to know.’

Wheeler edged forward on her seat. ‘We just need some background on Mr Gilmore, a bit of an insight into what he was like.’

‘Well, he usually came in on a Tuesday or a Friday – it depended on his timetable. He stayed an hour or so; I often didn’t see him at all. He typed up his reports on the children he was working with, left them in my tray for me. Usually the reports were fairly accurate.’

‘Was he married?’

Paton paused. ‘Never mentioned it. Only mentioned his mother once.’

‘In a home in Milngavie,’ said Wheeler.

‘Shouldn’t you be out there now?’

‘She’s just coming round from an op. We’ll speak to her first thing in the morning.’ Wheeler paused. ‘What about the children Mr Gilmore was working with; what were they like?’

‘He came in to see George Grey,’ she paused. ‘He’d seen a few of the others in the past, but he’s only working with George now.’

‘Because?’

‘What?’

‘Only working with George because . . .?’

Paton lit up a cigarette and sucked angrily on it, the ridges around her mouth gathering together like a concertina. ‘We wanted James to work longer sessions with George, to look at building up his self-esteem, to try to get his confidence up to a reasonable level.’ She gnawed at the cigarette. ‘There are some concerns about George; he’s become very withdrawn and uncommunicative recently. Become a bit of a shell. Difficult area, as you can appreciate, getting weans to talk.’

‘But there’s been something wrong just lately. Any ideas what it might be?’

‘Could be anything, knowing his background. You know the kind of kids we get at Watervale – their lives are usually very difficult.’

‘Neglect?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Neglect in one form or another. Sometimes it’s economic, sometimes emotional, sometimes unintentional, but it can be deliberate. On a few occasions it’s been worse than just emotional, it can be physical too. We know our kids and George has been acting out of character, becoming tight-lipped and defensive if we ask him what’s wrong. Not like his usual chatty self.’