The two youths stood in the rain peering at the door; through the slit they could make out a dark hallway. Alec Munroe was the smaller of the two. He wore a yellow shell suit, trainers and black woollen gloves. His dark hair was shaved close to his head. He spoke first. ‘Am no sure, Rab. What if someone comes?’ The tremor in his voice gave him away.

‘You shittin’ it wee man?’ Rab Wilson tried for a laugh but it was a hollow sound. A head taller than his friend, he assumed the authority in their relationship. He wore denims, a fleece jacket and old, battered trainers. He hadn’t bothered with gloves, but had wound a long red scarf around his throat. His thick blond hair was dark with rain.

They waited, listening. The wind moaned around the house, breathing into cracks and gaps. Rab glanced back at the dirt track. Empty still. Much of the noise from the traffic on the London Road was muted by the heavy rain but he heard the occasional roar of a lorry on its way to the English capital. Rab wondered how his father was doing in London and if he would ever see him again.

Alec folded his arms tight across his chest to stop the trembling. ‘Ye sure there’s nobody about? That his car over there?’ He nodded in the direction of a blue Ford Focus parked a short way from the house.

‘Fuck knows, but there’s naebody here. There’s nae lights on. Come on ya numpty.’ Rab pushed open the door and paused, waiting for the creak to die away before stepping into the hallway. ‘See, it’s empty. Let’s have a wee shuftie and mind we’re only takin’ what we can carry.’

‘God, it’s mingin’,’ muttered Alec.

‘Aye well, we’ll mind tell folk that old Gilmore’s hoose stinks.’

‘Dis stink but.’

‘What kind of a cunt would live in a hoose like this?’ Rab tiptoed to the sitting-room door and tentatively pushed it open. They were there to steal what they could from Gilmore’s house. A wee bit of thieving and money in their pocket if they could sell it on. It was the way forward. A career of sorts and the only one open to them at present. Rab knew Gilmore worked at Watervale Academy and that there was a parents’ night that night at the school. All the staff would be there. Rab stepped into the shabby room and adjusted his eyes to the dim light. ‘Noo just grab stuff an’ remember—’, but he didn’t finish his sentence. Instead he stood transfixed by the image in front of him. The bloated body was hanging from a hook on the wall, its neck almost completely severed by the rope. Its blackened eyes bulged at them from a face livid with bruises.

James Gilmore was still at home.

Alec wrapped his arms around himself, swallowed hard, tried but couldn’t look at the body.

Rab moved towards it and stared into the dead man’s face for a full minute before turning his back on the corpse. ‘Alec, my wee pal?’

‘Aye.’

‘Call the polis.’

Chapter 2

A voice, angry, accusing, bellowed into the darkness.

‘STAY WHERE YOU ARE! DON’T MOVE!’

The sound of gunfire.

Silence.

In the People’s Theatre, in the middle of the third row, Kat Wheeler held her breath.

‘STOP!’

More shots.

Then silence.

Wheeler felt the familiar rhythm of her heart, heard her breathing return to its usual pace, soft, gentle, unwilling to disturb the silence.

Darkness and silence.

Then the beat of a single drum. The glare of the searchlight trained on the audience. The sound system, loud.

‘YOU!’

‘STOP!’

The blinding light, too harsh after the cool of dark, scanned the audience. She blinked hard, felt the familiar vibration begin on her leg, small and tremulous but insistent. She wriggled, tried to extract the phone from her jeans. Two fingers flailing. Failed.

‘FREEZE!’ bellowed the voice.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

The vibration stopped.

‘ARE YOU READY TO DIE?’

She hadn’t thought too long and hard about it.

‘YOU CAN’T ESCAPE DEATH!’

The searchlight off. Welcome darkness. Silence.

The vibration returned; this time she was ready and yanked the phone from her jeans, its glow a solitary prick of light in the darkness. The too-familiar number blazed silently on the screen.

The searchlight was back on, scanning the room. ‘WELL?’

Her voice less than a whisper, ‘I have to take this.’

Beside her, Imogen’s reply, ‘Have to? Or choose to?’

Wheeler stumbled over feet, pushed past knees, finally forcing a large woman in a red dress to stand to let her through. Wheeler mouthed a silent apology while noticing the stubble around his lipsticked mouth, saw the Adam’s apple move.

‘WHAT’S IT TO BE?’

She saw the gold necklace, a pentagram. He smiled as she pushed past him. She flickered a smile in return, noticed his hair, a short undercut with a bit of a quiff on top, a haircut identical to her own. She wondered fleetingly if they went to the same barber. She moved on, ignoring the scowls and huffs of disapproval from the other people in the row, until finally she lurched through a door and heard it close behind her. In the corridor she leant against the wall, flipped open her phone and punched in the number. Kept her voice low and controlled. ‘This had better be good.’

Five minutes later she had texted her apologies to Imogen and was driving out towards Carmyle Police Station in Glasgow’s East End. The station was in the centre of the triangle between Auchenshuggle, Mount Vernon and the South Lanarkshire border. Twenty-eight minutes later she barged into the station, took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time and was rounding the corner just in time to hear a familiar sound. One of the team whining.

‘Weather’s shite.’ Detective Constable Alexander Boyd nodded towards the window before slurping black coffee from a chipped mug.

Acting Detective Inspector Steven Ross shuffled papers together and crammed them into his in-tray, smoothing them down with a satisfied smirk. ‘The game might get postponed.’

Boyd shrugged. ‘Personally, I don’t give a toss.’

She stood behind Boyd. ‘Me neither; I think the murder takes precedence here.’

Boyd swivelled round in his chair, spilling coffee onto his wrinkled white shirt. ‘Sorry, didn’t hear you come in.’

Ross stood, hastily pulled on his leather jacket and automatically smoothed his dark hair. ‘Ready when you are.’

‘Well get a bloody move on – I had to leave a night out for this.’

She was at the front desk signing for the pool car when he caught up with her.

Tommy Cunningham, the desk sergeant with ninety-seven days left at the station before he retired, sucked air through pursed lips. ‘Dearie me,’ he said in a soft Irish accent, ‘tell me you’re not taking that eejit with you?’

‘’Fraid so TC.’

‘See that he keeps it on the road this time, won’t you?’ Cunningham sounded doubtful.

Ross shook his head. ‘Can’t believe you fuckers are still going on about it. Accidents happen all the bloody time.’

Cunningham sighed. ‘Shit happens to some more than to others, son. See, I think that maybe you’re jinxed. Did you even pass your SDT?’

Wheeler smirked; all officers had to achieve at least seventy-five per cent in order to pass the Standard Driver Training Course.

‘I got ninety per cent,’ muttered Ross, ‘but thanks for asking.’

‘And now we’ve a pool car with a rare big dent in it, because of you,’ Cunningham grinned at Ross.

Ross didn’t return it. ‘Adds to its character.’

‘You’re a bloody eejit, son.’

Wheeler made for the door. ‘He might be, TC, but he’s our eejit.’

‘Right enough.’ Cunningham shook his head, his voice resigned, ‘he’s ours.’

Ross kept his silence and followed her out.

Wheeler closed the door behind them, trapping the sticky heat in the station. Outside, a freezing Glasgow downpour was well under way but she strode ahead, oblivious to the rain, her blonde hair plastered to her head.