The figure approached. Malcolm Miller scowled at them. ‘You the polis?’

Boyd and Robertson flashed their ID cards. Boyd could smell the body odour from the man. ‘We’d like a word if it’s convenient, Mr Miller.’

‘It’s not. I’m just on my way out.’ Manky checked his watch.

‘You’re not even in the place yet, Malcolm,’ said Boyd.

‘Mr Miller – we’re no pals.’

‘Mr Miller,’ Boyd corrected himself, ‘we’d still like a chat.’

‘I’m just here to collect some information, then I’m off. I’ve things to do, folk to help. Folk who’ve been intimidated by some of your lot in uniform.’

Boyd sighed, ‘Good of you to invite us in out the rain – we won’t keep you long.’

They waited until Manky had reluctantly unlocked the door, then followed him into an open-plan office. Robertson busied himself looking at the photocopied sheets that had been stuck around the wall offering advice. Boyd pulled a plastic chair over to Manky’s desk and made himself comfortable. ‘We won’t keep you long, Mr Miller. We just need some information.’

‘Information on what?’

‘The people who use this place, specifically the people who were here on Sunday night, the night of the Christmas party.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘In particular Rab Wilson and Alec Munroe – were they at the party all night?’

Manky stared at him. ‘And you’re sitting here asking about them because . . .? Suddenly you care about the kids round here? How’s that then?’

‘Because of recent developments,’ said Boyd.

Manky snorted. ‘You mean the murder? The old guy who worked at the school, the one who copped it?’

Boyd shifted in his chair. ‘So much for sympathy or compassion.’

Manky smirked. ‘I’m fresh out. What dae they call it, “compassion fatigue”? Think I’m suffering from a wee dose of that myself. And I can’t tell you anything about the two kids who found the body. They might’ve been here, hard to tell. It was a busy party, know what I’m saying?’

‘We’d like a list of the folk who were here.’ Boyd tried for a patient tone, failed. ‘Just print out your contacts list.’

‘Printer’s fucked.’ Manky studied his filthy nails. Chewed on a rag nail. ‘And there’s nae money tae repair it. And I cannae remember who wis here. Folk running in an out all night.’

Robertson walked over to the printer; it was in pieces.

Boyd leaned forward, his voice a hiss. ‘We want a list of names, Malcolm.’

Manky waited a minute before yawning in Boyd’s direction. ‘And you think one of the weans must automatically be a killer because they live round here? Nice detective work. No prejudiced thinking, jist clean solid police procedure and hard evidence.’ He leaned towards Boyd. ‘You dae have evidence?’

Boyd sucked his teeth.

‘Aye, I thought so. Sweet fuck all.’

Boyd sat back in his seat and slowly crossed one leg over the other. ‘I’m just asking for some information on people who attend the party, folk who use this place. At the moment that’s all.’

‘Not some folk, vulnerable folk.’ Manky took his time shifting papers, organising his in-tray, making sure he let them wait. Eventually he continued, ‘You wouldnae be here grasping at straws if you’d any leads. I imagine that the heid high yins are delighted with your lack of progress; it shows just how shit the polis at Carmyle station are.’ He pointed his finger at Boyd. ‘And instead of getting something concrete, you come in here sniffing about for some wean you could stitch up for the murder. Am I right?’

Boyd stood. ‘So, were you here all Sunday night yourself?’

Manky sniggered. ‘You want tae blame it on me now? Talk about clutching at straws. Have you nae imagination? I wis here all night. Ask anybody.’

Boyd walked to the door.

Robertson approached Manky.

‘Whit now?’ Manky was impatient.

‘I think you should reconsider. There’s a killer who is watching, waiting. He’s in this community and at the moment he’s getting away with murder. Even your clients aren’t safe.’

‘Our wee community looks after its own.’

‘A few names are all we’re looking for.’

‘No can do. You heard about client confidentiality? Well, if my clients cannae trust me, who can they trust? Certainly not you lot.’ He stared at Robertson. ‘This here is all those weans have,’ he paused, ‘so mind you two muppets shut the door on your way out.’

Robertson’s voice was harsh. ‘So you’re telling me that you can vouch for all of your clients on the night of the murder?’

‘I didnae say that.’

‘No you didn’t because you can’t, can you?’

‘You’ve no reason tae suspect any of the weans here. Or me. This is polis harassment. If you’ve got anything in the way of evidence then let’s see it.’ Manky reached out his hand. ‘Well?’

Robertson ignored the hand, sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘You’re okay with the idea that you might be harbouring a murderer?’ He leant towards him. ‘You’re absolutely sure you’re okay with that?’

Manky grinned, showing a row of dark mercury fillings. ‘You’re fucking pathetic. I’m not harbouring anybody. Now get going.’

Robertson pulled out a card and dropped it onto the desk. ‘If you hear anything, anything at all. You call me.’

Manky didn’t do them the courtesy of waiting until they were out of the room before he picked up the card and dropped it into the wastepaper bin.

Outside, Boyd stalked ahead to the car. The rain had started again and he was soaked before he’d even opened the door. ‘Fucker knows more than he’s letting on.’ He settled himself into the driver’s seat and barely waited until Robertson had closed his door before he shot off.

‘Definitely lying,’ Robertson said.

They drove to the end of the road, turned and felt a hail of empty cans hurtle into the back window. Robertson gasped. Boyd ploughed on. ‘Bastards.’

The group of boys stood laughing and pointing as the cop car retreated. At a house at the end of the road, at an upstairs window, Rab Wilson stood in his bedroom and watched.

Chapter 14

‘Hope it doesn’t have that old-folk smell of piss,’ Ross said.

Wheeler squinted at the cheerfully painted sign which read ‘Welcome to The Courtyard Retirement Community.’ Ross turned the car into the gravel drive. The Courtyard was a long, two-storey brick building set well back from the road in its own grounds. In the gardens pruned roses and hydrangeas bowed to the wind and shivered in the rain; only the heather looked like it was coping. Ross pressed the intercom, a man’s voice answered and they were buzzed through to the reception area, where a plump middle-aged man in a too-tight suit introduced himself. ‘Hello, I’m David Line. I’m one of the managers here at The Courtyard.’

Wheeler and Ross both flashed their ID and the three of them moved through to a stuffy office. Wheeler took off her coat and sat opposite the manager. Ross took the seat beside her, picked up a brochure from the desk and began fanning himself.

Wheeler began, ‘You know why we’re here?’

The manager shifted on his seat and rearranged his hands into a nervous knot of twitching fingers. There was a sound of knuckles cracking. He swallowed twice before speaking. ‘DCI Stewart called last night and again earlier this morning and outlined what happened. The two policemen and the family liaison officer arrived this morning. This is dreadful news about Mrs Gilmore’s son. Really, just awful. I can’t imagine . . .’ His voice drifted off, his face tortured with the images of a dead man. ‘And you know that she’s just out of hospital?’

They both nodded, paused for a second before Wheeler spoke. ‘Did you ever meet James Gilmore, Mr Line? Was he a frequent visitor?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there; I never met the man. I’ve only worked here for a few months. That’s not to say he hasn’t visited his mother during this time – he has on a number of occasions. We have a system whereby everyone has to sign in and out. I checked the book and it records him being here last month, on the twenty-eighth; he arrived at 8.20 p.m. and left around 9.30 p.m. He was her only visitor. As far as I know, she has no other living relatives.’