‘Just no life it seems.’ Wheeler opened a bottle of water, took a sip. Wondered if it might be better if it was wine.

‘Fits in with him being a ghost.’ Ross swivelled his chair to face her.

‘Maybe he deleted all his messages at the end of the day, kind of like emptying the in-tray,’ Robertson offered.

‘OCD.’ Boyd raked through the pile of paperwork on his desk. ‘Where the hell’s my chocolate bar?’

‘It’s hardly obsessive to be organised – most of us function better that way.’ Robertson turned away, dialled, spoke into the handset, leaving another message on an answering machine.

Boyd gave him the finger.

Wheeler stood and stretched. ‘I’m done here. Need to get out into the fresh air.’

‘Avoid the shit storm more like.’ Boyd had found the half-eaten chocolate bar and had begun demolishing it. ‘When Stewart realises we’ve nothing to give him.’

Wheeler glanced across at Ross. ‘Let’s take a drive out to Gilmore’s house – we’ve an hour or so before the post-mortem. I want to see the house, see if it sparks anything.’

‘Get it straight in your mind?’ Ross was already logging out.

Wheeler pulled on her coat. ‘Yep, get it straight and see if anything else crops up. I can’t think straight staring at a bloody computer.’

Outside the cold air hit Ross in the face when he opened the door. ‘Bloody hell, it’s freezing.’

‘It is winter, muppet.’ Wheeler walked to the car, sleet settling for a moment on her face before melting and leaving a cold imprint across her skin.

They drove down London Road, took the turn-off on their left and drove to Gilmore’s house. Parked. Stayed in the car with the heater on full. Tried to ignore the smell of stale sweat and chips that clung to the interior of the car. They stared at the remains of Gilmore’s home.

The fire had ravaged the house, destroying most of the roof; the windows had been blown out and the old stone had lost its greyness and was now blackened and charred. The building had been secured and a notice prohibited entry.

‘Looks like a set for a horror movie. Gives me the creeps.’

‘What age are you, Ross – ten?’ She leant forward, drummed her fingers on the dashboard. ‘What are we missing?’

‘About the house?’

‘About the whole bloody case. There’s something we’re not seeing.’

‘Back to the start?’

‘Yep.’

‘Apparently an innocent guy was beaten to death.’

‘Then his house get torched.’

‘He’s a professional helper, no obvious signs of criminal behaviour, no drugs, no fraud, not even a bloody parking ticket. Nothing, clean as a whistle.’

‘And the two boys’ alibis held up. Both Alec Munroe and Robert Wilson were at a party the night Gilmore was killed – there are loads of witnesses who saw them get drunk on cheap cider and make arses of themselves. Most of them have it on their phones too. And of course it’s plastered across Facebook.’

‘So, the two boys weren’t involved.’

‘So who does that leave?’

‘Known thugs?’ Ross stared at the sleet lying on the windscreen and reached over to switch on the wipers.

‘We know that at least two of them were out of the country when Gilmore was killed,’ said Wheeler.

‘Convenient.’

‘Well, it seems that Jamieson was at his mammy’s funeral. He couldn’t have arranged for her to pass away at the same time as Gilmore died.’

‘No but he could have arranged to have Gilmore killed.’

‘True.’

‘Tenant?’ asked Ross.

‘Big wedding anniversary – seems him and Nicky have been an item for twenty years. Treated her to a week in Vegas.’

‘Classy. Means nothing though; they’ve got a whole team of thugs who could’ve done it.’

‘I know.’

‘Doyle?’

She looked out of the window – they were getting nowhere. Sleet was drifting gently over the charred remains of Gilmore’s house, leaving a light dusting of white. ‘Very festive, this weather. Let’s get going. Stewart wants a clear slate for his Christmas holiday.’

‘Still but it leaves us with—’

She smiled. ‘I know. Absolutely sweet FA. Right, let’s clear off then. The PM’s at four o’clock – you ready?’

But he had already started the car.

Chapter 16

They’d only just left the burned-out shell of a house and were driving towards the city centre when he began whining, ‘The smell of post-mortems clings – I can’t wash the smell off, can you?’

‘You’re exaggerating. It’s psychological,’ Wheeler lied.

‘And there’s a game tonight. Don’t want to go out smelling of death; it’s not good for the reputation.’

‘I’d have thought just turning up, they’d be overjoyed. Dead or alive. Who’re they playing?’

‘Plastic Whistle.’

‘Any chance they might scrape a win?’

Ross shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Stared ahead, concentrated on the road. Said nothing.

‘Too awkward a question?’ She leaned over, pointing. ‘Look at the state of you. You have gone and got yourself a wee pet, haven’t you? Are you that lonely?’ She picked the hairs from his jacket collar. ‘Dog hair.’

‘I’m just looking after a dog for a few days, that’s all.’

‘Poor mutt.’

‘Does all right.’

‘You’re never there.’

‘Old Mary across the road takes it round the block. Feeds it too.’

‘You’re a chancer, Ross – never met a bigger skiver.’

They drove towards Glasgow Cross. ‘Any chance we could have a quick coffee and a bun first? Settle my stomach before all that gore.’

She checked her watch. ‘If we’re quick.’

They settled into their seats in the café, ordered two coffees and a couple of Danish pastries. When the food arrived, Ross started munching happily. ‘It’s that buzz-buzz that gets me.’

She picked up a Danish and bit into it. ‘Mmm, these are lovely, nice and chewy, just the way I like them.’

‘That wee Stryker saw they use?’ Ross continued through mouthfuls. ‘Christ, what an evil wee thing. It’s like going to the dentist, then finding out you’re in a horror movie. Turns my stomach.’

‘Uh huh.’ She chomped happily on the sugar pastry. Sipped her coffee, let the warmth of the café envelop her.

Later he paid and they walked out into the rain.

‘Just a drizzle.’ Ross sounded more upbeat as they got into the car and drove to the mortuary. He parked the car next to Callum’s red BMW and killed the engine. Still he made no attempt to get out of the car.

Wheeler undid her seat belt. ‘Now I don’t want you to come over all sensitive on me, Ross.’

‘I won’t – I’m just saying, that wee saw’s a bastard.’

She climbed out of the car, pulling her coat close around her. ‘’Cause I’m not going to hold your hand if you keel over.’

He was close behind her. ‘Perish the thought.’

‘Aye, me too.’

Inside, Callum greeted them with a cheery wave. Behind him two young lab technicians were silently preparing the body and the photographer stood waiting. Everything would be recorded and photographed and the wounds measured while James Gilmore’s body was neatly dissected.

‘Well guys, let’s get started.’ Callum’s voice boomed around the room, bouncing off the pristine white tiles.

Wheeler watched him work. He was always cool and businesslike, but then this was his business.

Callum switched on the microphone and recorded the date and time, then a list of everyone present. Finally he named the victim and began describing his clothing in detail before standing back to allow the photographer to do his job. Once the clothing had been photographed, Callum carefully began to remove it, before finally passing it to one of the techs, who bagged and labelled it.

There was no jewellery on James Gilmore’s body, no sign of the St Christopher that his father had given him. Gilmore had no tattoos, no piercings and his body showed nothing out of the ordinary, unless you counted the bruises that criss-crossed his torso.