‘Okay.’

‘You know the Rosewood Hotel?’

‘The dosshouse? I’ve never been in it but yes. I know of it.’

‘Of course you’ve never been in it, why would you? And you don’t want to, believe me. It’s a hellhole. And it’s not a dosshouse, it’s a bloody waiting room. Just full of people waiting to die.’

He couldn’t miss the emotion in her voice. She was in a bad way and he needed to tread carefully, for her sake, not his.

‘Can the owners not be done for something if it’s as bad as that?’

‘Let’s hope so. They will be if I can find something to stick on them.’

‘Want to tell me why you were there?’

Another big sigh. ‘Oh why not? It’s the Molendinar case. We think our man had been living in there for a while. Poor bastard is almost better off dead than being in there. Shit, I don’t mean that. Long, long day.’

Winter’s itch pulsed. The guy in the burn. The guy lying under the streets. The voice that he couldn’t quite hear.

‘So you think the guy in the tunnel had been homeless?’

‘Looks that way. We think he’d only been in there for four nights though. God knows where he’d been staying the rest of the time. But that place . . . Everyone in this city should be ashamed that it’s there. We all just shut our eyes and pretend that places like that - people like that - don’t exist. Well they do. It made my skin crawl. It made me . . . so fucking angry.’

He wanted to ask a hundred questions. He wanted to know everything but he was also wary of her shutting down, pointing at the police tape and telling him not to cross. The voice in his head had become quieter. He didn’t know anyone who was homeless. At least he didn’t think he did.

But he heard something else too in what she was saying. Her anger wasn’t just at the Rosewood. He knew it was also at places like it, places where people were left to be forgotten, left to die. He crossed to the sofa and sat with his arm round her.

She made a half-hearted effort to push him away but quickly gave in, her head slumping onto his shoulder. ‘I’m supposed to be professional,’ she protested. ‘Supposed to be detached. Can you just imagine all those sods in the station if they knew how this got to me?’

‘I’m not sure you are supposed to be detached. How can you do your job if you don’t care? You’re supposed to be human, not a robot. And you’re taking on a lot. You can’t save the whole world, Rach. You can just do your best for those who matter most and you’re doing that.’

She raised her head so she could look at him. ‘I’ve never thought this before but you might actually be smarter than you look.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.

‘So what happens next with the tunnel guy? Have you got a name for him?’

She banged a small fist lightly against his chest. ‘You’re pushing your luck. Yes, we have a name. He signed himself into the Rosewood as Brian Christie. It doesn’t match anyone on Missing Persons but we’re looking.’

Suddenly, the voice that Winter couldn’t quite hear faded away. He felt the whisper of it go from the room and out the window into the night sky. He’d never heard of a Brian Christie. It was a relief and at the same time an odd disappointment. That wasn’t something he’d even begin to think of trying to explain to Rachel though. She had enough to worry about.

Chapter 11

Monday morning

It took Narey a moment to realize what the sound on the other end of the line was when she answered the phone. The beeps were from another century and she couldn’t remember when she’d last heard them. It was someone calling from a phone box. Finally, a coin dropped and the line cleared.

‘Hello? Detective Narey? Inspector Narey?’

The man’s voice was old and rather weak. She had just about placed it when he confirmed it for her.

‘It’s Walter McMeekin. From the Rosewood Hotel. You said to call if I remembered anything else. Well I have, sort of. It’s no much, mind.’

She reached for a pen and pulled a notepad towards her. ‘Hi, Walter. Thanks for calling. Listen, anything at all could help us. What did you remember?’

‘Well, like I said, it’s no much. But if you’re still trying to find out about that laddie Brian then you maybe want to try down at the City Mission. The boy told me he’d been down there. I remember him telling me that. Before he came to the Rosewood, he’d been down at Crimea Street.’

‘Walter, that’s great. Did he say why he he’d been to the Mission?’

A pause. ‘No really. He said he’d been speaking to the boss man over there. I remember because I know him as well. Malcolm Colvin. Malky is what they call him. The project manager. One of the good guys.’

‘Okay, Walter. I’ll go down there today and check it out. You’ve been a big help.’

‘Och, no. It’s nothing. That poor laddie. Best you find out what happened to him.’

‘We will. Are you doing okay, Walter?’

He laughed. ‘Ah’m doing how ah’m doing, hen. Better than I will be tonight no doubt and better than I will be tomorrow morning. I could say different but I’ve known maself for too long.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘Too late for that, hen. Too late.’

The City Mission was nearly two hundred years old, the first of its kind in the world. They were a Christian organization, offering practical care like food and a roof over people’s heads when they needed it most. The current offices were on Crimea Street, a narrow warren halfway between Argyle Street and the Broomielaw. It was a new build that resembled a New York loft conversion, all brick and floor-to-ceiling windows over five floors. The sign, GLASGOW CITY MISSION, ran from top to bottom, extended beyond the building’s side.

Just a few yards away across the road, at the T-junction with Brown Street, an abandoned building sat in stark contrast, its tall arched windows covered in protective grilles, its ornate doorway bricked up. Narey had paused as she got out of the car, fascinated by it being there in splendid isolation. She couldn’t help but wonder what it had been, a tobacco baron’s warehouse or maybe his offices. A bit grand for one and maybe too plain for the other.

Toshney caught her looking at it. ‘Everything okay, Boss?’

‘Hmm? Yes. You never wondered what a building like that used to be in a former life?’

The DC looked bemused. ‘No.’

She sighed. ‘No, I don’t suppose you have. Come on. He’s waiting for us.’

Inside the front door, a middle-aged woman introduced herself as Maureen and told them she was the project manager’s assistant. A quick call ahead had already let them know her boss was in and would hang around until they turned up. Maureen led them up to the first floor where he sat waiting behind a desk.

Malcolm Colvin was only in his early thirties, a tousled mop of hair and stubble making him look more like he’d walked off a beach with a surfboard under his arm than managed a homeless project.

His casual look was topped off with blue jeans and an open-necked white shirt. Narey noted that he was good-looking in that superficial blue-eyed Greek god kind of way that more shallow women might find attractive. He greeted her with a broad smile and she suppressed the temptation to bite him.

‘Mr Colvin, thanks for taking the time to see us.’

‘Not at all. And it’s Malcolm. Glad if I can help in any way. Please, both of you, take a seat. Can I get you a coffee? Tea?’

Narey and Toshney sat but politely refused the offer of a drink. ‘How can I help you, Detective Inspector? You said on the phone it concerned someone I might know who had lived in the Rosewood. I hope he’s okay whoever it is and not in some kind of trouble.’