‘Maybe your employees supplying Class A drugs? Disregard for human life? A blatant disregard for any form of human rights? A regime that encourages residents to be doped to the eyeballs to keep them quiet? Residents being physically attacked and threatened?’

‘Rachel . . .’ Addison’s tone held a half-hearted warning.

She ignored him. ‘I sat and spoke with a nice old man in your hotel who told me that people were just in there killing time before they died. They only leave there in a wooden box. You let them have a shitty little existence in place of death and then they get the real thing. That nice old man deserves better than to be in your dump with people dying around him. Would it never occur to you to let them have a bit of fucking dignity before you order the next coffin?’

Nobody spoke or seemingly even breathed for an age until Thomas Kilgannon offered a loud and obviously fake cough. Constance slowly turned to look at his client who merely nodded his head. The lawyer’s eyes snapped to Narey. ‘My clients are busy men, Detective Inspector, and I feel they have been more than generous with their time. It’s time for us to leave.’

The two men rose lazily from their chairs. Kilgannon’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he looked at Narey. They held each other’s gaze just long enough to make Addison both hopeful and worried that she would smack him. He stepped across their paths and waved an arm towards the door.

‘Mr Constance, it was a pleasure and an education as always. Mr Kilgannon and Mr Wells, thank you for dropping by and rest assured we will speak again.’

The door had closed on the interview room for a full half-minute before Addison turned to her to break the silence.

‘Rachel, don’t bite my head off as well but that was about your dad, right?’

‘Right.’

Half an hour later, she was sitting at her own desk when she looked up to see DC Becca Maxwell approaching from the other direction, carrying a sheaf of papers and looking concerned.

‘Everything okay, Becca?’

‘Ma’am, you asked me to look into suspicious deaths related to urban exploring.’

It had been nothing more than checking all possibilities rather than a real feeling that there was a connection. The Odeon had brought Danny’s mention of urbexing to mind and then she’d thrown it at Addison in a desperate attempt to cling on to the case. And now?

‘Yes. Have you found something?’

Maxwell hesitated. ‘I think I’ve found another two.’

Chapter 22

Sometimes you have to be careful what you wish for. Narey held her breath as Maxwell read from the sheet in front of her.

‘Derek Wharton. Aged thirty-one. He was found by Constables McColm and Elliot on the morning of 10 September 2014 in the remains of St Peter’s Seminary at Cardross. It was called in by a Daniel Gallagher who had gone there to photograph the building. Mr Wharton had a broken neck and head injuries. It had been raining heavily and the thinking was that he fell from one of the upper levels onto the bottom floor. He might not have died immediately but there was presumably no one to call for help.’

Maxwell laid four A4-sized photographs out on the table. The first was of the seminary’s wide, concrete façade in three tiers, looking like the world’s least fancy wedding cake. It was modernist, brutalist and Category A-listed. It wasn’t exactly her cup of architectural tea but she knew it was rated as a world-leader when it was built. Surrounded by trees, it had been a priest’s training college near the village of Cardross between Dumbarton and Helensburgh, about twenty miles from Glasgow. Now it lay in near ruins, overgrown and covered in graffiti.

The second and third photographs showed internal shots with the body in position on the solid grey floor. Way above, the ceiling rolled in concrete waves like a sea parted only to let in light from the heavens. Her sense of thrill was still there but it was now accompanied by a definite sinking feeling. The final shot was of the young man’s head, cruelly and unnaturally twisted at an impossible angle from his body.

‘And there were suspicious circumstances?’ Narey asked.

‘That’s where it gets tricky. The FAI ruled it an accident but the file is flagged up because Wharton had gambling debts and there’s still a suspicion this might have been payback. I can put in a call to the attending constables and the detective in charge if you want.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll do it. Leave me a note of the names and numbers. What’s the second one, Becca?’

Maxwell turned to the next sheet. ‘Christopher Hart. Aged twenty-nine. His body was found at the foot of the Finnieston Crane on the night of 7 August 2013. There was a broken bottle of Buckfast nearby and alcohol in his system. However there were also what were thought to have been ligature marks on his wrists, suggesting they might have been tied prior to his death. He suffered multiple injuries, broken arms and legs, fractured spine and severe cranial damage.’

‘Yes, I remember that one. The suspicion was that it was organized crime. Some kind of punishment killing.’

‘Yes. No one was ever prosecuted for it though. The case is still open. Do you want to see the photographs?’

Narey grimaced. ‘Not particularly but let’s have them.’

Maxwell placed five photographs down and Narey immediately knew that Winter had taken them. They were stark but scenic, an almost filmic quality to them. The first was a typical scene-setting shot, the giant of the Clyde a silhouette against the dark blue summer sky. A neon rainbow of city lights shone through the lower part of the crane’s lattice structure while a blue hue to the right-hand side signalled the attending cop cars.

The body was as much a ruin as the seminary had been. For a moment, she forgot just why she was interested in these deaths and wondered how her partner could do what he did. She saw plenty of bodies in her job but to see this every day . . . Shattered bones, shredded skin, a collapsed skull and shapeless face. Few people would have the stomach for it. What did this do to him? Whatever it was, it didn’t stop him doing his job well. True to form, Winter hadn’t missed the abrasions to the wrists and, from his sharp close-up, they did indeed look like rope marks.

‘What’s on Hart’s record?’

‘Theft. Possession with intent. Assault. Handling stolen goods.’

‘Career criminal. Do we know who he worked for?’

‘Nothing official but there’s a note saying he was believed to be in the employ of the Mullen brothers.’

Narey looked up from the photographs, briefly expecting to see that Maxwell was joking with her. ‘Mullen?’

‘Paul and Bobby.’

‘I know who they are.’

‘Of course, ma’am. Sorry.’

She remembered Danny Neilson’s verdict on why someone might be found in the Molendinar. A good place to hide a body, he’d said. Did the same go for the seminary and the foot of the Finnieston Crane? These two had been easily found but maybe it was a good place if you didn’t care if the bodies were eventually discovered. Maybe it was enough that they wouldn’t be found until whoever had put them there was long gone.

The crane was far more open than the Molendinar, the Odeon or the seminary. Did it fit? She could well imagine the Mullens - or their enemies - hanging someone upside down there to make them talk or just to scare the shit out of them. And then letting go.

‘Whose case is it?’

‘DI French’s.’