Wheeler stared at the dead body; it had become an object, a slab of meat to be stored in the cooling area of the mortuary. Exactly what Stewart had not wanted to happen in the newspaper report. People quickly forgot about a slab of meat. A few days ago, this body had been a professional man, and according to his mother, a gentle man, so how could this have happened? Wheeler stared at what was left of the educational psychologist and wondered if he could ever have imagined his death would have been so violent.

She watched Callum move around the table, measuring the length and depth of the injuries, still talking, still recording everything, and knew that what he had said at Gilmore’s house had been right. The post-mortem wasn’t going to give up any great secrets; this wasn’t an American cop show, when the case would be solved in sixty minutes or less. Dissecting James Gilmore’s body was only going to reinforce what they already knew – that he’d been battered to death. And that there were very few clues as to who did it.

‘Did he even put up a fight?’ asked Ross. ‘Did he have any chance to defend himself?’

Callum shook his head. ‘There are no signs of defence wounds.’ He picked up one of the hands, scraped under the nails, held up the swab. ‘Clean, no torn skin, no blood, no bits of clothing. Whoever it was came at him like a thunderbolt. And didn’t stop hammering him until the job was done.’

Chapter 17

Tuesday evening

Wheeler was at home listening to Hank Mobley’s Soul Station and getting ready to go out. The CD had just finished when a text came through from her sister. Wheeler read it: same old. She quickly sent a text to Jason.

CALL YOUR MOTHER.

A minute later she had a reply. I already did.

Liar.

She glanced at the clock; she just about had time. She called her sister, kept it brief and insisted that Jo did the same. ‘So shoot – what’s with all the texts?’

Five minutes later she had a clear understanding of what Jason was up to. He was stone-walling his mother and she was going nuts down in Somerset. Wheeler heard Jo’s frustration.

‘Okay, just this once, I’ll go check on him. Where’s he likely to be, at home or out and about? Has he got a favourite pub?’

‘The Vineyard.’

‘Fine.’

Wheeler grabbed her boots and coat, pulled her hair into a bit of a quiff and within ten minutes was standing outside her flat in the wind and rain. She waited until the wrought-iron gates closed behind her before turning, head down into the wind and walking to Ingram Street. She stood in the entrance to a hotel and waited and watched four taxis pass, their orange lights dimmed, telling her they were not for hire. Eventually one turned off the High Street and made its way towards her, its light glowing. She flagged it down, climbed into the warmth of the back seat and settled herself.

‘The Vineyard, Byres Road, please.’

The driver switched on the meter before driving off.

From the window she watched the festive crowds mill around the city centre, saw parties of office workers on their Christmas night out, the girls in tiny sequined dresses and bare legs flashing fake tan and sky-high heels, some walking like newborn colts as they navigated the icy pavements. Five minutes later the driver stopped outside The Vineyard and Wheeler handed him her fare, adding a tip. At last a smile.

Wheeler walked to the pub entrance. The Vineyard offered a healthy student discount and the music was loud. It was a bit of a long shot that he’d be there. There were at least a half dozen student pubs in a small area around Byres Road. She decided that if she had to, she’d at least look into them all.

Once inside the pub, she went to the bar and ordered a large glass of Chardonnay. If she had to babysit her nephew, she reasoned, then she might as well enjoy herself. She paid for her drink and strolled to the back area, sat in one of the huge red banquettes and made sure that she had an uninterrupted view of the bar and also that she could see out of the large window onto the street outside. Byres Road was one long road full of cafés, pubs and restaurants. It was close to the university and students seemed to spend most of their time in the area. If Jason was out drinking this would be the best place to find him.

The place began to fill up, mainly with students, killing time till they went back to waitressing or maybe just waiting until the clubs opened. Lazy sods, thought Wheeler. A few groups of office workers came in looking for a quick drink on the way home. She had almost finished her wine when she saw him. He arrived with a group of three others, two boys and a girl. Wheeler saw Jason’s pallor, grey and wan. She hoped it was from studying hard but she doubted that it was anything as sensible. The trio with him were all as bad, all super-skinny, with sunken cheeks and attitude, heroin chic she’d heard it called. The girl was the thinnest, bony arms dangling from a black T-shirt. She wore a tiny miniskirt over thick black tights, a thick smear of black eyeliner and what looked like purple lipstick. She looked like a goth model, all long limbs and big doe eyes. On her head she wore a wee sparkly hair band. Jason was the tallest of the group, but the boys all wore the same uniform of skinny jeans, sloppy retro T-shirts, baseball boots, floppy hair tumbling over as-yet unlined faces. One boy wore a beanie hat fixed at a specifically cool angle.

Wheeler watched her nephew; he was smiling, looked happy, draped an arm casually over the shoulder of the girl. Mr Cool-as-Fuck with not a care in the world. She waited. After a few minutes she saw it, noted the car on the road outside cruise to a stop at the lights. She watched Jason peel himself away from the girl and slip out of the door. All very casually done, nipping out for a cigarette maybe, or darting round to the cash machine, perhaps taking a quick phone call? Any of the above, except that he wasn’t. He returned a few minutes later, having leaned into the car and apparently done nothing more interesting than shake the hand of the driver. Maybe he was an old friend, a fellow student? Aye shite. The car moved away and the driver’s purple Mohican created a distinctive outline. Weirdo. She caught a glimpse of another man in the passenger seat. Fat neck, greasy face. Smithy, Doyle’s lackey. She slipped out of the back door, stood underneath the window and texted Jason.

Hi Jason, we need to meet up and have a wee chat. Where r u just now?

She watched him text back. Sipping from his pint, glass in one hand, phone in the other. A natural. Kids today. Multitasking.

Sorry, no can do, I’m still at work, have taken on another shift for friend who’s sick. Holed up here, probably need to work an all-nighter. This sucks. Wish I wasn’t here! I’d rather be down the pub. U ok?

It took her twice as long to text. Me fine. Let’s meet up soon.

Read his reply. Yeah. Defo! Whenever I get a min I’ll be in touch. J xx

She watched him tuck his phone into his jeans, laugh at something his friend said and drape his arm once again around the skinny shoulders of the gothic princess with the sparkly hair band. Well, Wheeler thought, she had given him a chance. She tucked her mobile into her jeans. Back in the pub she marched over to him, grinned at his look of surprise. Kept her voice the right side of fucked off: ‘Jason, we need to have a word. Now.’ She watched him go into action, put on the sheepish grin, duck his head down towards her face and peer out from underneath his hair, all moves that told her that her nephew had changed, had morphed from an innocent wee boy into a handsome big shite who thought a smile would let him get away with murder. It probably did with his mother. Wheeler leaned towards him. ‘You’re a lying scumbag, you know that don’t you? And to me of all people. I thought you’d know better.’