‘And Gilmore?’

‘I only met him once or twice, in passing. We didn’t have a real conversation.’

‘He didn’t want to be saved then?’

Sniggers around the room.

Robertson ignored them. ‘He’d no interest in our work, sir, none at all.’

Stewart grunted before turning to the rest of the team. ‘Moving on, I want you all out there. I want someone to go pay a visit to the local youth club.’ He checked his notes. ‘It’s being run by an ex-con name of Malcolm Miller, known as Manky. Apparently there was a party the night of the murder. DI Wheeler, you get back to the school, get a feel for the place, find out what sort of a guy Gilmore was and check out the kids, see if any of them had a grudge against him. See if there were any incidents reported.’ He held up his hand, palm facing the team. ‘And no, I’m not convinced Alec Munroe or Rab Wilson had anything to do with this, but as mentioned they all have big brothers, dads, uncles. Remember the scheme the school’s in – a fair few of the residents are candidates for Barlinnie and Manky Miller was inside himself.’ Stewart looked at the team. ‘Okay?’

Nods and agreement.

‘And while we are on the subject of Barlinnie residents, Maurice Mason’s been released and according to our snitches he’s gone AWOL. Mason gets out of Barlinnie and someone is found murdered; let’s just be aware of the coincidence.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Okay, let’s get to it. I want to know everything about James Gilmore by close of play today, at the latest. DI Wheeler will dish out your chores. And I want the case done and dusted by Christmas, not hanging over me when I’m lying on a beach sunning myself. Okay?’

More nods and grunts of agreement all round. Stewart shuffled his large sheaf of papers into a semblance of order and marched out.

Wheeler walked to the front of the room and pointed at Boyd. ‘Go through Gilmore’s address book; call everyone in it. Follow up every lead, no matter how small.’

He grabbed his jacket. ‘Aye, of course, but first off, a coffee and a minute to eat my breakfast roll, though. I’m starving.’

‘God almighty, if you must, but be quick,’ said Wheeler.

‘I’ve been up all night,’ he smirked.

She remembered what Ross had told her about Boyd’s new girlfriend. ‘Too much information, Boyd – I don’t need to know.’ She turned to Robertson. ‘You take the sets of keys, find out what they open and where. He must have secrets somewhere; there was sod all in his house.’

‘He must have a secret life,’ Ross chimed in.

‘Maybe there’s no secret life,’ said Robertson sourly. ‘Believe it or not, not everyone has one.’

‘In which case, you’re fucked,’ Ross answered, ‘so you’d better start praying the keys are to a Pandora’s box of goodies leading us to the killer.’

Robertson flushed.

‘Ignore him, Robertson, he’s on his period.’ Wheeler glanced at the list of objects found in Gilmore’s house. ‘There are a couple that don’t look like house keys. Sort through them, find out what they open. And search through his diary, see where he’s been, who he’s spent time with, go through his mobile, ring all the numbers stored on it. Find out who he called last. Double up with Boyd and split the lists.’

‘Already onto it.’ Robertson held up a list of names and numbers. ‘So far all the calls have been to schools and his mother’s home.’

‘Okay, good. Keep at it. And both of you take a trip out to the youth club. Speak to Miller, try to get some idea of who was at the party on Sunday night and find out if Alec Munroe and Rab Wilson were there all night.’ She spent the next few minutes issuing orders, trying to galvanise the day shift while hoping to keep the sleep-deprived night shift inspired. Then the briefing was over.

As she gathered her notes, two uniformed constables walked past her and one muttered, ‘I think the two lads are definitely in on it.’

‘Nah,’ the other said, ‘breaking and entering. That’s about the height of them. Criminal fucking masterminds they’re not. Poor weans were white with shock. I heard that wee Munroe laddie started crying. Wanted his mammy. Christ, no way he could’ve battered anyone to death.’

‘You’d be surprised. Delayed shock maybe? Good actor?’

‘Nah. You’re talking shite. They’re innocent.’

‘Want to bet on it?’

‘Fair enough, how much?’

Wheeler watched them leave the room and thought that their conversation accurately summed up the team. Divided.

Ross turned to her. ‘Watervale it is then? But can we stop off for coffee on the way? I’m starving.’

‘Can’t think why – you had loads to eat last night.’

‘That was a whole other day away. Besides,’ he said, patting his stomach, ‘I need to keep myself refuelled.’

‘We don’t have time and anyway, you’re not a bloody racehorse, Ross.’

She was out of the door and down the corridor before he’d finished saying, ‘See myself more as a stallion, Wheeler.’

Chapter 10

Tuesday, 9 a.m.

‘. . . And why was that?’ The woman stared at him.

No answer.

The wall clock tick-tocked softly in the background. Outside the window the steady thrum of traffic from Clarkston Road passed underneath the second-floor office. Rush hour, mothers dropping children off at nursery, school, playgroup, childminder. Folk going to work. Day shift driving in to start the day, night shift driving home. HGVs in for the long commute across Europe. A world busy with itself, the everyday noise only mildly dampened by the constant beat of rain against the window pane.

Dr Sylvia Moore sat in a leather and chrome Le Corbusier chair, her long legs crossed, her red hair shorn tight to her head. She wore a fitted black trouser suit, a heavy gold watch and flat patent leather brogues. Her face was free from make-up.

She repeated the question, ‘Why was that?’ adding, ‘Do you think?’

This time an answer. ‘Why was what?’

‘Why did you feel you couldn’t reach out to her?’

Doyle shrugged, ‘Who knows?’

Her voice hard, ‘You do, Andy. You know why you couldn’t reach out to her.’

His fist on the side of the Le Corbusier, skin on chrome, harsh, beating. ‘She’s a fucking woman, I don’t know! I don’t understand you lot.’

‘Us lot?’

‘Fucking women. I mean, I buy her stuff, anything she wants. I paid to go to a charity do, paid to get sat at the same table as some fucking art-house producer who needs “investment” for his next project, some play about fuck-knows-what. All for Stella.’

‘But that’s not enough, is it? She wants more . . . what is it she wants?’

‘Fuck knows.’ He paused. ‘She wants to be a star but she’s got fuck-all talent.’

‘If Stella was here what would she say? Apart from you buying her stardom, or at least a part in a play, what else does she want from you?’

Shrug.

The gentle tick-tock of the clock; outside a police siren screamed past, its wail fading in seconds.

‘Is she in love with you?’

A shrug. ‘Mibbe. But I don’t understand her.’

‘Do you want to understand Stella?’

Another shrug.

‘Would it be different if you were in love with her?’

‘Probably.’

‘But you’re not?’

‘No.’

‘Then you’re just stringing her along?’

‘Love isn’t what I need.’

‘Most people need to be loved, to feel wanted, appreciated, connected.’

‘Good for them, but I’m not most people.’

‘No.’ Moore watched him, saw the anger leave him. ‘So, what is it you need, Andy?’

She waited while the pause stretched over several seconds.

He glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’m out of here.’

‘We’re not finished.’

‘I am.’ He stood.

‘Then you’re bailing out.’

‘Christ.’ He sat down again.

‘You need to look at your actions, take responsibility for yourself and your interactions with others. You’re not a child, you’re a grown-up. Stop acting like a spoilt child.’