The sirens and the factory were on one side of him, the M8 on the other. It made for an easy but crazy choice. He got to his feet, finding an ache in his right leg that almost matched the one in his back, and scanned the lanes in front of him. The traffic had thinned out a bit but was still scarily busy. He pulled up the hood on his fleece till it covered as much of his head and face as possible then waited, swallowed hard, and ran. He was halfway, still alive, still hurting, still scared. He halted then ran again. Into the middle and climbing over the barrier. Drivers were blasting their horns furiously but a gap came and he hurtled into the traffic once more, not daring to look until he made it across.

He was sweating hard, his back soaking, as he clambered over a wire-mesh fence to the other side. From there it was easy, down an embankment and onto a quiet tree-lined street on the farside of the industrial estate. He knew Shields Road subway was on that side, somewhere to his left, and he headed for it as quickly as his injuries would let him.

Chapter 47

The fleece was ditched in a bush just before the subway station and he managed to walk in as straight and unflustered as he could. On the outside at least. Inside, his guts were churning.

On the platform it was all he could do not to look at the cameras. He knew they were up there, following his every move. Instead, he stared at his feet or at the far wall, urging the train to arrive and get him out of there. When it did he got inside, found a corner seat and studied an advert above the window, avoiding all eye contact and trying not to picture Remy Feeks’ broken body.

The kid had been caught in the middle of something he couldn’t survive. Winter was sure that Remy had done nothing more than explore the Molendinar and find Euan Hepburn’s body. He was the witness who became the victim.

Now Remy Feeks was lying in the rubble of the factory with a railing stuck through his chest. His skinny frame was punctured and his freckled face was as grey as a gravestone. Winter was shaking with guilt and anger and fear, wanting to shout and punch and run.

He had to hide his hands so that people couldn’t see them trembling. He wedged them under himself, trapping them there so they couldn’t give him away. It must have been all over his face though. And if anyone could see the other side of his eyes then they’d see the face of the boy who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Winter was on the inner circle, going anti-clockwise on the Clockwork Orange and turning back on himself to where he’d come from. If he could have turned back time as easily then he would have. He had five stops till Cowcaddens, five stops to pull himself together and make a plan. When he got out and within range of a phone signal then he was sure there would be a missed call waiting for him. Telling him what he already knew. Dead body at the old biscuit factory. Get there now.

Except he couldn’t go like this. He had to sort himself. Get a change of clothes and a new head. He had to be able to go in there and do a professional job without stinking of sweat and fear. Without giving himself away in two minutes flat.

Of course, it might not even be as simple as that. He had no idea what they’d seen or what they knew. Someone had obviously called them, most probably the someone who had killed Remy and had tried to do the same to him. Had the bastard passed his name on to the cops? Had the cameras seen him arrive or leave? He knew nothing and didn’t like it being that way.

Shit, where was the subway train now? Stops had passed and he hadn’t noticed. He looked up and saw the carriage was pretty busy, late-evening shoppers or people heading home. Maybe the police were already checking the stations, looking for a man in a hooded fleece. He caught his reflection in the window opposite and saw himself staring back, wide-eyed and dishevelled.

Someone had killed Remy Feeks and tried to frame him for it. Kill him or frame him.

This was crazy. He couldn’t get his head round it and was sick to his stomach. He felt hot and cold at the same time and was sure his breathing was in overdrive. He needed to slow down his thoughts, get them into some sort of order.

Then the train lurched to a stop, catching him by surprise and causing him to topple forward. His nerves were shot. The sign on the wall outside the carriage read St Enoch’s. They were in the city centre, just two stops from Cowcaddens where he’d get off for Stewart Street cop shop and his car.

A woman got on and sat down directly opposite and he knew she was looking at him. He glanced up despite himself and saw a large, older lady wrapped up in a warm coat with a scarf round her neck. He was in just a T-shirt and in a state. No wonder she was staring.

He studied the floor and decided that, whatever else, he wasn’t going to look up to see if she was still watching. Then he felt someone sit down beside him, the cushioned seat sinking.

‘Are you okay, son?’

He didn’t look up. Pretended he thought she was talking to someone else. Maybe she would go away. Please, go away. Give me peace and go away.

A hand rested on his arm and squeezed it gently. ‘I hope you don’t mind me sitting here, son. I’m not being nosy but you look like you need help. Are you okay?’

No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t okay at all. Despite himself, he looked up and saw that the woman’s face was a picture of maternal concern. He must have seemed even worse than he thought. He had to pull himself together quickly.

He wondered how old she was. Early sixties maybe. Hair greying at the fringes and probably dyed elsewhere. Lines around her eyes and her mouth. His mother would be about the same age if she’d lived. His mother. He realized how long it had been since he’d thought about her. Probably three months, that long since her birthday.

‘Have you got somewhere to go?’

Shit, did she think he was homeless?

‘Yes. Look, thanks but I’m fine. Just been a long day.’

She nodded but didn’t believe a word. The train lumbered into Buchanan Street station but she didn’t budge. She sat there with her warm hand on his arm. It felt good. Wrong and utterly fucked up but good.

The train moved off again and he edged more upright in his seat. ‘My stop next. I’m fine, honestly.’

‘You take care of yourself. Do you need anything? Money?’

‘What? No. I mean . . . no thanks. I don’t. Look, I need to . . .’

He got to his feet, the movement making her hand slide off his arm. Looking down at her, he felt the need to say something but words didn’t come out. His mouth started a conversation that his brain couldn’t finish. The poor woman looked so worried for him. And maybe she was right.

He went to the doors and stared through the glass at the walls flashing by until they changed into the platform at Cowcaddens. He got off without looking back.

He had gone no more than a couple of paces from the subway entrance when his phone flashed at him. Two missed calls. He stood still for a few moments, gathering himself together then called one of them back, desperately keeping his voice as steady as he could.

‘Hi. It’s Tony Winter. Is that Siobhan? I missed a call.’

‘Hi, Tony. Yes, I was trying to get hold of you. You’ve got a job in Kinning Park. A murder. They’ll be waiting for you. Can you get there sharpish or should I tell the SOCOs to handle it?’