‘I just don’t know. I always felt there could be more to it but I couldn’t find anything to prove it one way or the other. Maybe I was always bugged by the fact that if someone did want to stage an accident then a place like the seminary, which was remote even before it fell into ruin, would be perfect. It just seemed too neat, you know? No chance of witnesses or CCTV.

‘Wharton did have gambling debts and I looked into it but didn’t get anywhere. It wasn’t a lot of money, just a few grand. And plenty of people owe that without getting killed for it.

‘His family said he did visit abandoned places as a hobby but they didn’t really understand it. I wish I could tell you more but I can’t.’

DI Martin Telfer at Organized Crime had filled her in on what they had on Christopher Hart’s death but had to confess it was nothing concrete.

‘Crispy Hart worked for the Mullen brothers, did a bit of everything, basically whatever they told him to do. Thief, bagman, hard man, dealer. Whatever. It’s possible he stepped out of line and Mullen punished him but we don’t think so.’

She thought it best not to mention that she’d just heard the same thing from the horse’s mouth.

‘Mullen was having troubles with Jack Hulston around that time. The usual territory crap, turf wars. Maybe Hart was done as part of that but we’ve no intel to back it up. A guy like that would have had a hundred enemies and a handful of mourners. Often with these gangland killings, we know who did it and we just can’t stick it on them. Usually someone’s shooting his mouth off and that gets back to us but there was none of that this time. Not a word. I can’t see how it fits with these other cases of yours though.’

Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it does.

The death of Davie McGlashan hadn’t even merited a detective on the case. She spoke to Constable Elaine Paton, one of the two who’d been called when the man’s body had been found. She was surprised to get the call from MIT, thinking the matter was closed.

‘We did a sweep of the saw works, ma’am. There were bundles of clothing and little things like a toothbrush and empty food tins that certainly made it look like he’d been there for some time. Certainly more than one night. No sign there had been more than one person there though. Just Mr McGlashan as far as we could see. Forensics came in, took photographs, did their stuff then moved the body out. It was all pretty routine.’

‘Nothing strange about it at all that you can remember?’

‘No, ma’am. Like I say, it was . . . Well maybe there was one thing. Maybe nothing.’

‘What was it?’

‘Well it seemed likely that the man had died in his sleep. The way he was positioned, still under his blanket. But there were two bottles of Buckfast near the body. Neither of them had been opened and that struck me as a bit odd. I don’t know many drinkers that wouldn’t have had at least some before they’d gone to sleep. Most would have had at least one of the bottles.’

‘Were there empties? Maybe he’d drunk something else.’

‘No, ma’am. None. He hadn’t had a drink.’

That little nugget didn’t seem to impress many of the detectives in the incident room. One or two took notes but most seemed to shrug it off. Seeing it, she gave them the lecture about every little thing being important even though she knew it would just turn a few further against her.

As she spoke, she saw Detective Chief Superintendent Tom Crosby, the lead on Major Crime, slip into the back of the room. Great. Just what she needed. Crosby, known obviously enough as Bing, stood with his arms folded across his chest and listened intently. A couple of heads turned to see him standing there but she pulled them back.

‘There is a community out there in Glasgow, right now, continuing to explore old buildings, enter abandoned premises and disused tunnels. They are doing this out of sight and by the nature of it, out of our protection. We have no reason to think that whoever is responsible for these deaths will kill again but equally, we have no reason to think they have stopped.

‘We’re on the clock here. We need to work all sides of this and get a result as quickly as possible. Becca Maxwell has information sheets for everyone on urbexing, who does what and where. Read them.’

She saw a couple of them, Petrie and McTeer, whispering to each other and both had grins on their faces. Arseholes, the pair of them. She’d sort them but doing it in front of Bing Crosby wasn’t the way.

Minutes later, the briefing was over and the detectives were dispersing with varying degrees of enthusiasm. She allowed herself to catch McTeer’s eye, just enough to let him know she was on to him.

She turned back to see Crosby deep in conversation with Addison. He was shaking his head a lot and occasionally gesticulating with his right arm. For his part, Addison was bending his head forward and speaking quietly so no one else could hear. It looked for all the world like a pissed-off Detective Chief Superintendent and a defensive DCI. She didn’t like it.

Crosby left with a final shake of his head and, once he was out of the room, Addison approached her.

‘Let me guess, he wants to offer me a promotion.’

‘Not quite. It was all I could do to stop him reprimanding you. He’s gone to cool off and you’d better hope he does.’

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know but had to ask. ‘What’s he so mad about?’

Addison loomed over her. ‘Not just him. I told you not to go near Bobby Mullen. What the hell did you think you were doing, Rachel?’

‘Ah. That.’

‘Yes, that. He got a call from Ken Bryson to say you’d been seen going into Mullen’s pub. It’s a toss-up whether Bryson or Crosby will have you sacked first. You were talking about a ticking clock on this case, Rachel. Well it’s ticking for you too. You’d better get a result.’

Chapter 33

They’d gone straight to Oran Mor for a drink after the walk to the Botanics. It had been Remy’s idea. The place used to be a church before it was turned into a pub so what better for them than an old building that had survived more or less intact after it hadn’t been wanted any more. Okay, so it had been tarted up inside but it wasn’t quite gentrified. They’d also be able to get in a corner and talk without too much chance of being overheard.

It was all dark wood and panelling inside, pillars and pews and low ceilings. It was shadowy, intimate even. Like another tunnel but this time with alcohol. Remy would be going easy though; no boozing for him but he’d make sure everyone else had plenty. He got the first round in, encouraged a ‘proper’ drink for those that said no and got himself a lager shandy that looked like a real pint.

When he came back with the tray of drinks, he saw Gabby and Miller were sitting next to each other, heads tight together in conversation. He didn’t like that much but maybe later he could get something out of her of what the arse was saying. He needed to get whatever he could from all these people because he wasn’t sure he’d be seeing them again.

He handed out the glasses and parked himself next to Lorna the NightLight who had ordered a glass of white wine. She’d actually asked for a small glass but he’d got her a large. She was so skinny that he couldn’t imagine she’d be able to hold much alcohol at all. That made him feel bad, but he needed people to talk.

‘That was fun,’ she said. ‘Thanks for organizing it. I’d only ever been there with an ex-boyfriend before. It was good to do it as a group. It felt like we were occupying the place.’