When it came, it mentioned the closure of a factory that had been making baths for a hundred years, sparking another rant from his dad.

‘We used to make things here, son. Ships, trains, carpets, engines. Now we just eat things, use things, buy and sell things and throw them away. Same with people. Use them up and throw them away.’

And finally, news just in. Police say the body of a man has been found in the Molendinar Tunnel which runs underground through the East End of Glasgow. Police are still at the scene and the area has been cordoned off while investigations continue. The man, thought to be in his early thirties, was found earlier this evening. It is not yet known whether his death was suspicious. Now here’s Eleanor with the weather . . .

That’s it? That’s all they’ve got? Didn’t know if his death was suspicious. Yeah, right. They knew. They would know much more than they were saying.

Chapter 5

Saturday morning

‘So, tell me about this guy, Rachel. Mr RH.’

DCI Derek Addison had his long legs stretched up on his desk, an oversized sandwich in his hands and heading for his mouth. Hearing about a month-old corpse with a slit throat was no barrier to his ever-healthy appetite.

‘Well for a start, we don’t know that he is Mr RH. I’m working on the fact that he might be but the key ring might not have been his. It could have been left there at some other time or it could belong to someone else. It could belong to whoever cut his throat.’

‘Now wouldn’t that be nice.’

She nodded. ‘It would but how often do we get that lucky? Anyway, I can tell you more or less what our man had for his last meal but I’m not sure that vegetables and beef are going to get us that far.’

‘It wouldn’t get me far,’ Addison agreed, his mouth full of pastrami and cheese. ‘But maybe it tells us that he last ate in the afternoon. That doesn’t sound like a breakfast or an evening meal. What else do we have?’

‘Not much at all. He was five foot eleven, reddishfair-haired, probably weighed a little over twelve stone. No tattoos, no scarring, no sign of any major operation. Tox report came back clean so no alcohol or drugs in his system. Clothes were mainly regular high street, bought in their thousands. No identification in his pockets. Fingerprints were intact but they match nothing on the system.’

Addison sighed. ‘You’ve got some good news that you’re saving for me, right?’

‘Wish I had. The post mortem drew a blank other than estimating death at five to six weeks ago. The killer was probably right-handed but because of the low ceiling we can’t make a guess on his stature. The angle of the cut tells us nothing because everyone would have crouched down to the same height.’

Addison swallowed down another mouthful. ‘You’re trying to get DNA from the key ring, I take it? Make a match to him?’

‘We’re trying. Sam Guthrie says she’ll have something for me by the end of the day.’

Addison nodded and Narey enjoyed the discomfort that the mention of Guthrie’s name caused him. He and the forensic chemist had dated more than a few times but she played the game by rules that he just wasn’t used to. She was in charge and Addison couldn’t quite handle that and he couldn’t quite walk away from it.

‘Yeah well, we’ll see what she comes up with. Okay, so where are you going to go with this from here?’

It was Narey’s turn to sigh. ‘I’m going to slog it out. No one has been reported missing in the time frame that would fit the description so he maybe lived alone or is from overseas. Maybe he is someone that goes off the radar for long periods so no one’s too concerned. I’m going to run a search for anything remotely similar, if there is such a thing. We’ve got as big a team on the ground as I could muster and they’re doing door-to-door in the area. And I’m also going to keep spinning the plates on all the other cases that I have on the go.’

‘I hope that’s not you moaning about workload, DI Narey.’

‘As if, sir. I’m just grateful that a wee lassie like me even gets to play at cops and robbers in the first place.’

‘Quite right and don’t forget it. Okay, so here’s the obvious question. What the hell was this guy doing getting himself killed in some stupid underground tunnel that no one knew existed? Why was he there?’

Narey exhaled wearily. ‘Funnily enough, I did wonder that. The same goes for the guy that phoned in the 999.’

‘Assuming he wasn’t the killer.’

‘Yes, assuming that but it doesn’t seem likely. Why phone it in weeks later and leave a recording of your voice when all you had to do was walk away and the body would probably never have been found. Doesn’t make sense.’

‘No but I’d still to want to interview this nutter, whoever he is.’

‘Me too. I’m on it.’

‘Okay, keep me up to date and I’ll weigh in when I can. What else are you working on that I need to know about?’

She held up a clenched right fist and began releasing fingers one by one as she reeled cases off. ‘A serious assault on an asylum seeker in Sighthill. The victim’s still in intensive care. A rape and beating in Renfrew Lane. An attempted murder on Garscube Road. A gang fight in—’

‘Jesus, Rachel,’ he interrupted. ‘It’s like when someone asks you how you are. They don’t really want to know, they’re just being polite. I meant what do I need to know about.’

She smiled. ‘Just so you know I’m not slacking.’

‘Ha. Sometimes I wish you’d slack. You make everybody else look bad. Now piss off and let me eat.’

Narey was halfway to the door when Addison spoke again.

‘Rachel, I meant to ask. How’s your dad doing?’

She turned and he saw the energy seep out of her, her face telling him all he needed to know.

Her father, former Detective Chief Inspector Alan Narey, had Alzheimer’s. He’d moved into a care home three years earlier. Her mother had died a few years before that.

‘Good days and bad days. Well . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Bad days and some not so bad. He only recognizes me maybe one visit in four. The worst is watching him disappear, like watching a rowing boat going out to sea and not being able to stop it. You know, some days are actually good and they’re something special. I’m going to visit him later.’

‘Tell him I was asking . . . Just look after yourself, Rachel. And him.’

‘Are you . . . are you being nice, sir?’

‘I’ll deny it if you ever repeat it. Now piss off.’

Winter was waiting impatiently in the office of Campbell ‘Two Soups’ Baxter, the scenes of crime manager, one of many people who were his boss. Baxter was one of those least happy to be in that position and yet one of the happiest to order Winter around. As far as Two Soups was concerned, Winter was an unnecessary anomaly. Baxter often loudly declared that his photographic skills weren’t needed when the scene examiners did the job just as well.

It was true and it wasn’t.

Winter was an anomaly all right. In more ways than one if he was being honest. He was a throwback to the days when the job was done properly, when police photographers used film and their brains and had limited chances to get things right. When skill was needed, not just a speedy trigger finger and an HNC. A previous Chief Constable of the old Strathclyde force, Sir Ed Walker, had kept Winter on, much to the irritation of the likes of Baxter. Neither a change of chief nor the unification of the country’s eight forces into Police Scotland in 2013 had changed the situation. Not yet, anyway.