‘Is there anyone who would have known him well? A member of staff, perhaps?’

‘I asked the carers but no one seems to have known him. A few saw him come and go, but by all accounts he kept to himself. “Self-contained” is how one carer described him, and,’ he added, ‘extremely polite. His mother is fastidious about manners.’

Wheeler rose. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Line. Maybe we should go and speak with Mrs Gilmore now?’

‘Of course. Helen, the family liaison officer, is waiting in the coffee lounge. We can collect her on the way.’

‘What’s Mrs Gilmore’s first name?’ Wheeler asked.

The manager seemed baffled. ‘Moira, why?’

‘Sometimes it’s better to use first names when giving someone bad news.’

‘It’s more personal, less formal,’ Ross added, as if he had remembered the section on dealing with bereavement in the handbook and could deliver it verbatim.

The manager hesitated. ‘As I said, Mrs Gilmore is a stickler for manners and I’m certain that she wouldn’t approve of you being so familiar.’

They made their way down a thickly carpeted corridor; the walls were painted a sunny yellow shade, in contrast to the grey sky visible through the windows. Ross sniffed. There was no smell other than a faint mustiness coming from the bowls of dusty pot-pourri that were dotted on occasional tables. They passed the coffee lounge where the FLO was waiting. She was heavyset and sat with her plump hands resting on her lap, sturdy legs crossed at the ankle. Her hair was cut in a short, business-like bob. She stood and introduced herself as Helen Curtis. Wheeler held out her hand. ‘Glad you’re here. Mrs Gilmore will need support.’ Curtis shook hands and smiled and fell into line behind them as they trooped on down the long corridor, finally stopping outside a closed door.

Line paused. ‘Shall I come in with you?’

‘Might be an idea.’

Wheeler knocked, heard an impatient voice announce, ‘Let yourself in – I’m recovering from an operation, remember?’

The manager opened the door.

They were following him into a small hallway when Wheeler’s phone bleeped a text message. She hung back while Ross and the FLO and the manager all went into the apartment. She glanced at her phone. Jason. She quickly scanned the message, got the gist. Hung over. Party. Feeling ill. Will call later. Promise. She slipped the phone back into her pocket, walked into the apartment and waited while everyone seated themselves. She glanced around, took in the pictures, was drawn to one in particular. The drawing was small but the line was unmistakable. The subject, a young woman, her hat drawn over her face, was typical of one of the Scottish Colourists. It was an original J.D. Fergusson. Wheeler felt a pang of avarice flit through her. She heard a sharp cough and turned from the picture to a woman in her late eighties. She wore a pale blue dress with a dark blue cardigan and a rope of pearls hung from a wrinkled neck. On each wrist she’d stacked slim gold bracelets and her gnarled fingers held enough bling to impress a rapper. Her white hair was set in stiff waves.

‘Mrs Gilmore?’ Wheeler asked.

The old woman sighed. ‘Of course. They’ve already been here, the boys in uniform.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I knew the minute I saw them that something had happened, that it was bad news.’ She spoke with authority, someone who was used to giving orders. She glanced at Ross, then back to Wheeler. ‘Which one of you is in charge?’

‘Both of us actually,’ Ross smiled gently.

Mrs Gilmore turned her face from the smile and Wheeler noticed how translucent the old lady’s skin was, a thin layer of gauze stretched tight over ancient bones.

‘I knew that something had happened to James.’ There was nothing ancient about the sharpness in Mrs Gilmore’s voice. ‘A mother’s instinct.’

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ Wheeler moved forward. The woman stared at her. Wheeler watched the woman study her, saw her take in her scuffed boots, the short hair, saw that she had been judged. And found lacking.

Mrs Gilmore leant on the arms of the chair and curled her fingers around the wood before letting out a long breath. ‘No.’ She met Wheeler’s gaze head on. ‘Well, sit down and let’s get on with this. What else have you come to tell me?’

Wheeler perched on the end of a plump sofa and kept her voice gentle as she told the mother some of the circumstances around her son’s murder.

Mrs Gilmore sat in silence for a long moment before speaking. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. Saddened, yes, but surprised, no.’

Wheeler inched forward on the sofa. ‘Not surprised?’

‘Those people did it.’

‘Those people?’ Wheeler prompted.

Mrs Gilmore paused. ‘Scum. My son worked with scum. I imagine you do too.’

The FLO fussed around the old lady. ‘You’re in shock, Mrs Gilmore . . .’

‘On the contrary!’ Mrs Gilmore snapped. ‘I’ve just told you that I wasn’t surprised. The only surprise is that it didn’t happen years ago.’

‘You’re just out of hospital; I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’ The FLO walked towards the kitchen.

‘You will do nothing of the kind. Do not touch anything of mine until I tell you. Now sit down.’

The FLO sat.

‘When exactly did he die? The uniformed police suggested Sunday or Monday. Which is it to be?’

‘His body was found on Monday evening but we think he was killed sometime the previous night.’

‘My son went against my wishes and left academia to work with . . .’ she paused, searching for an appropriate word, found it and continued, ‘he left a university position to work with trash.’

‘You didn’t approve of his career?’ Ross asked.

‘No. I never wanted him to do that sort of work. He should have followed his father, god rest him, into academia. His father was worried that this would happen one day.’ Her voice hardened. ‘That’s why he gave it to him.’

‘Gave him . . . ?’ Wheeler prompted.

The old lady patted her throat. ‘My husband, Murdo, gave James a St Christopher medal to keep him safe – a stupid, sentimental gesture but there you have it. My husband was somewhat emotional. I was the disciplinarian. Nevertheless I should like both the medal and the chain returned to me.’

Wheeler was pretty sure they hadn’t been listed among the items retrieved from the house. And James Gilmore had certainly not been wearing it when they found his body. ‘Can you describe it for us?’ she asked.

‘Twenty-four-carat gold – the medal is about half an inch wide, quite a chunky piece. It previously belonged to Murdo. And before that, to his older brother Duncan. Poor Duncan died of tuberculosis. People did in those days, you know.’

Ross glanced across at her and Wheeler met his eye. The old woman’s bitterness was a shock. Although it was one way of processing her grief. And she had suggested another possible motive for the death: theft.

Mrs Gilmore stared hard at Ross, her eyes bright and cold. ‘I would like the piece of jewellery returned immediately. It’s of considerable monetary value.’

Wheeler kept her voice neutral; there was no point in giving the old woman false hope. ‘We’ll have a look at . . . what we found in Mr Gilmore’s house and get back to you.’

‘But it would have been with him at the time – he always wore it. It was a talisman. Murdo told him to always wear it and I know he listened to his father.’

Wheeler nodded. ‘I’m sure he did but . . . when we discovered the body . . . there didn’t seem to be . . .’

Mrs Gilmore narrowed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t on his body, was it?’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘Was it found with his personal effects?’ Mrs Gilmore asked.

Wheeler shook her head. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it’s not listed.’

The old lady’s eyes glinted. ‘It was stolen, wasn’t it? Whoever killed James took it.’

Wheeler looked at the floor. ‘I’ll double-check if it was listed.’