His phone beeped to signal a text. It was her.

Fancy trying to get into the Sentinel Works at Polmadie?

If anyone would know it would be her; she knew him better that anyone else. If he didn’t get his shit together then she’d see through him in two seconds flat. She had this knack of interrogating him, staring at him until he couldn’t stand it any more and he’d crack every time. He certainly didn’t need any of that.

Not feeling well, he texted back.

So he stared down onto London Road watching people walking back and forth as if nothing had ever happened. For all he knew, Tesco’s car park was covered in rogue trolleys and there was a long line of lazy shoppers just standing waiting for them to magically appear at the front of the store. He couldn’t give a toss.

He wasn’t eating either. Just a couple of slices of toast and some cereal. Sometimes he thought it had all been a weird dream and he hadn’t even been down the tunnel in the first place. That was tempting to believe but he knew the truth. He could still feel the fabric of the guy’s jacket and the sense of the arm crumbling under his touch. He could still smell the body lying on top of him.

He’d washed his hands a hundred times over the past few days. Scrubbed at them, used every soap and shampoo he had. He could still feel it though. Still knew it was there.

Come on loser. U can’t be that sick. I hear the Sentinel is well worth a look.

He ignored it.

Okay if not the Sentinel, how about we go to the old biscuit factory? It’s ur favourite place.

He ignored that too.

Okay please urself. Going on my own. Ur loss.

Great. Now Gabby was mad at him too. How the hell had it come to this?

Chapter 9

Narey and Toshney parked up outside the Rosewood, got out of the car and looked at each other. They’d have been as well painting POLICE on the side of her car. And on their foreheads come to that. Neither of them was wearing uniform but there weren’t clothes plain enough that they wouldn’t stand out a mile here.

It didn’t look too terrible from the outside. It had been repainted in the last few years, a whitewash that hadn’t yet surrendered to the elements, all the letters in the blue signage were currently in place and it had handsome, if worn, art deco features. One step inside though and you saw it was carrying a title it couldn’t justify. This was no hotel.

Instead it held one hundred and seventy guests. Residents might be a better term. Home from home for the homeless. All men. Every one of them a prisoner of drink or drugs or both, signing over their housing benefit to pay for a room in the Rosewood.

The reception area was behind a protective grille, a design feature generally underemployed by the Hilton or the Ritz. The grubby linoleum flooring felt sticky underfoot and there was a sickly smell that seemed to grow with every second. A handful of hard plastic chairs were strewn around reception and looked as welcoming as the man behind the desk.

Shaven-headed with a tattoo running down his neck, the guy was in a blue tracksuit top and grey bottoms. He sported a few days’ dark growth on his chin and a small scar on one cheekbone. Glancing up, he saw Narey and Toshney approach and a silent swear word slipped his lips. This seemingly wasn’t going to brighten his day any further.

‘Help you?’ The question was as grudging as he could manage.

‘We’re looking for Mickey Doig. Is he around?’

The man considered this and seemed to conclude that Mickey was indeed on the premises. He turned and walked a few paces to his left and pushed a door open. As it swung on its hinges, he shouted inside. ‘Mickey! Cops are here to speak to you.’

A muffled ‘Fucksake’ came back in reply. Moments later, an unhappy-looking forty-something appeared, drying his hands on a towel and eyes darting round the room. When they settled on Narey, his face crumpled and another bit of life went out of him with a sigh. He clearly couldn’t catch a break.

He was skinny with close-cropped dark hair and silver-rimmed glasses, maybe just five foot eight, and had a nervous look about him. His green sweatshirt hung loose and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbow.

‘DS Narey. What do you want?’

‘It’s DI Narey now and it’s nice to see you too, Mickey. We wanted to ask you some questions.’

‘Ask me?’ Doig’s tone was defiant. ‘Don’t see how I can help you. I don’t know nothing about nothing. And everything’s above board in here. Completely kosher.’

With that, Doig flashed a look at his colleague behind the desk, the man hanging keenly on every word of the scene in front of him. Narey got the impression that Doig was posturing for Tattoo Man’s sake. Time to split them up.

‘No one’s saying everything’s not legit in here. But I’d like to have a look around. Make sure for myself. That okay with you?’

‘You got a warrant?’ It was the guard dog behind the desk. Narey smiled at him.

‘No we don’t, Mr . . .?’

A sullen pause. ‘Thomas Cochrane.’

‘We don’t have a warrant, Mr Cochrane. Only looking to give the premises a quick once-over. That a problem?’

It seemed that it was. ‘I thought you wanted a word with Mickey.’

‘We do. A word about the hotel. We can do our talking while we’re walking. Okay?’

Cochrane shrugged sourly. ‘I’ll need to phone the owners. Let them know.’

‘Of course, sir. You do that. In the meantime, Mickey can give us the guided tour.’

Narey turned her back on the desk, gesturing for Toshney to follow before Cochrane could argue any further. She then flipped out her thumb and suggested that Doig get moving. Mickey sighed theatrically and looked over at the desk, his hands held out wide. What choice did he have?

Doig led them to the harshly lit smoky stairwell and began to climb, his shoulders suitably slumped. ‘Just keep walking, Mickey,’ Narey whispered behind him. ‘We’ll talk further up.’ Doig nodded.

Footsteps above their heads signalled someone descending. Narey and Toshney looked up to see the soles of worn trainers coming unsteadily down the stairs. A tall, bulky man followed, shuffling one step to the side for every one forward. He stopped, peering down to study them from behind thick spectacles. He swayed in thought.

‘Got any dolly on youse?’ he slurred. ‘Methadone, any of youse?’

‘For fucksake,’ Mickey huffed, clearly not impressed by the man’s timing. ‘Down the stairs, Billy. Away with you.’

The man flattened himself against the wall, hearing the warning in Mickey’s voice, and watched him and the cops walk on by. ‘Nae problem. Was only askin’. Not a problem.’

Narey waited until they’d climbed a few more steps. ‘Everything kosher, that right, Mickey?’

Doig sighed. ‘I only work here. I don’t make the rules, I don’t make this dump the way it is and I don’t make these guys the way they are. I just do what I’m told.’

‘The get-out clause for arseholes everywhere,’ Toshney chimed in.

‘Look, what is it you want? DI Narey, I thought you and me were square.’

‘Square?’ She laughed. ‘You know that’s not how it works, Mickey. Keep walking. You don’t want it to look like you’re helping us out. You just want to be sure that you do. We’re looking for someone that’s maybe been living here.’