Doig raised an eyebrow nervously. ‘Living here? Name would be at the desk. Everybody’s registered. Have to be to get benefit paid by the council.’

‘Yes and the money straight into the owners’ pockets. No, we don’t know for sure that he’d been living here. You tell us.’

Doig glanced around. ‘Tell me.’

‘He’s in his early thirties. Reddish fair hair. Five foot eleven. Quite fit. Wore a light blue cagoule and a navy-blue fleece. Carried a grey-and-blue Nike backpack.’

The man’s eyes stretched in disbelief. ‘That’s all you got?’

Narey and Toshney looked at each other. ‘Pretty much. We don’t think he was an alcoholic or an addict.’

‘Was? This guy dead?’

Narey nodded.

Doig threw up his arms. ‘Listen, I don’t know this guy. Description means nothing. If he wasn’t a boozer and wasn’t using then he wasn’t staying here. Them’s the only kind we got.’

‘The description doesn’t ring any bells?’ Toshney asked him. ‘In here or anywhere else? DI Narey, did I imagine this or did you say something to me about still knowing where Mr Doig’s lock-up was?’

‘Fucksake . . . I’m not always on duty, I don’t know everyone we’ve got. Okay, look, come and I’ll get you to talk to Walter if he’s here. It’s not lunchtime yet, chances are we’ll catch him before he’s out of things. Walter’s old-school. Just the drink for him. He goes outside more than any of them and knows most of the guys in Glasgow. If anyone can help you it’s him. I’ll introduce you then I’m out of it.’

‘Mickey, you’ll be out of it when I say you are.’

Doig led them down a dingy corridor, the walls dirty and wallpaper torn. Halfway along, he skirted to one side and avoided a pool of vomit drying on the patterned carpet. ‘Not my job,’ he muttered before they could ask.

‘I suppose he’s not your job either?’ Narey was pointing to the far end of an adjoining corridor where a man sat slumped unconscious against a fire door. She strode away from them to where the man, hoodie pulled down over his head, was sprawled. With a familiar rage growing inside her, she pulled gently at the man’s arm and lifted his head. She walked back, shaking her head animatedly, and got right in Doig’s face.

‘Alive but sleeping in another world. You going to do something about him?’

Doig’s mouth opened to complain but instead he nodded grudgingly. ‘Once we’re done here.’

‘Make sure you do. I mean it, Mickey. I’m holding you responsible for this place whether that’s fair or not.’

He nodded again, more resentfully this time, but recognizing the look on her face said nothing. At the end of the corridor, he stopped at a chipped white door and rapped on it with the back of his hand. He knocked again and when there was no answer, he produced a key and opened up.

Over Doig’s shoulder, they could see that the room was tiny and bare. A single bed was pushed up against one wall, a single sink against another and the windows were barred. The unmistakable stench of stale urine seeped out. They could see why Walter spent so much time outside.

Her head spun with thoughts of another miserable little room, another life sentence without a judge or jury saying a word. She realized her fists were clenched and had to force herself to release them.

‘I’ve seen prison cells bigger than this. Better equipped too.’ Toshney sounded as angry as she was.

Narey didn’t, couldn’t, take her eyes off the room. ‘Difference is that you get to leave prison eventually. Usually, the only way to get out of this place is in a wooden box. That right, Mickey?’

Doig had the good grace to look guilty. ‘Aye. Most die or top themselves. Let’s try the TV room for Walter.’

Narey turned and moved quickly towards Doig. A startled Toshney managed to move between them in time. Through clenched teeth, Narey nodded at Toshney that she was fine. ‘TV room. Let’s go.’

They made their way down another flight of stairs along an identical corridor to the one above, picking their way through a small group of men sitting on the floor, sharing cider from a bottle and smoking roll-ups in the gloom. None of them seemed aware of the cops strolling by, or of much at all. The door to a communal toilet and shower area opened as an old man lurched out, pools of what might have been water or urine on the floor behind him, and an almighty stink overrode even the smell of the corridor.

The TV room held maybe a dozen men, most slumped over or holding each other up. All were old before their time and the truly old ones looked ancient, like drunken Methuselahs. A single TV screen on the wall held the attention of a couple of them but most stared into space or argued over cigarettes. Empty bottles of cider, vodka and Buckfast were spilled round the room and others were on their way to joining them.

Doig signalled for Narey and Toshney to stay where they were and went over to a corner where a small, neat man, much more awake than his brethren, sat reading a book. Doig bent down to talk to him and gestured over to where the cops stood.

‘And I thought zombies didn’t exist,’ Toshney muttered as he looked round the room. ‘Just made up pish, I thought, but they’ve been here all the time.’

‘Shut up, Toshney. A bit of respect wouldn’t kill you. Right, looks like we’re in.’

The man in the chair was nodding and Doig thanking him with a pat on his arm before standing up and going back over to the cops.

‘That’s Walter. He’s sober and he’ll talk to you. That’s all I can do though. You’ll find your own way out?’

‘Sure.’ She was already past Doig and heading for the old man, Toshney following closely behind. He was aware of the looks that Narey was getting from some of the more awake residents and was uneasy about it. Still, he got the feeling the DI was in the mood to defend herself without much problem.

‘Walter? I’m Rachel Narey.’ She held out a hand and the man shook it. ‘Mickey said why I’m here?’

‘He did, lass. Not that I couldn’t see you were police. What do you want to know? I’m not a grass. Can’t be seen to be one either.’

Walter looked to be about seventy, so Narey guessed him to be five, maybe ten years younger than that. His eyes were busy but dulled, giving the impression of a sharp mind that had been blunted by booze. His shirt, the collar showing signs of fraying, was buttoned to the neck and he wore a heavy V-neck sweater over it, the sleeves rolled double at the wrists to make them fit. His shoes were worn but recently polished. Everything was as trim and in place as he could manage.

‘We’re not asking you to grass on anybody, Walter,’ she assured him. ‘The man we’re looking for is dead.’

Walter’s eyes slid over and he shook his head. ‘We’re all dying. I don’t mean people generally. I don’t mean Glasgow. I mean us, in here. Killing ourselves right enough but no one cares enough to do anything about it. There’s a guy in here who . . . you got time to hear this?’

Narey nodded for both of them. She had time to listen.

‘A guy in here named wee Sammy McClune. Nicest wee fella you could ever meet. Do anything for anybody. Get your shopping. Go and see your mammy or your daughter and tell them you’re doing okay. Slip you a bit of cigarette when you’re short. A gentleman. Always time for everybody, you know? And the best mouth-organ player this side of the Rio Grande. Could play a moothie like Stradivarius could play a fiddle. What most folk don’t know is that Sammy had a wee boy that died the day he was born. Broke Sammy’s heart. Broke his marriage too and sent him into a bottle of vodka. Then another one. Couldn’t find his way out. Sammy died two days ago. We’re all dying in here, Miss Narey. Every one of us.’

Narey didn’t have the words. Her heart was breaking but she knew the man didn’t want her sympathy and she sure as hell couldn’t tell him anything would be all right. Instead, she nodded with all the understanding she had and repeated the description she’d given to Doig.