‘Christ,’ Wheeler spluttered, ‘now you’ve graduated from primary to delinquent teenager. Jump him?’

‘Just answer the question.’

‘There is no question.’ Wheeler held out her hand, counting off the fingers, ‘one, we’re colleagues, two, I’m a detective, three . . .’

‘Ha, you do want to jump him.’

‘Christ, any more of this and I’m telling Alison what a nutter she’s with.’

‘Mobile.’

Wheeler watched her friend answer the call, saw from her reaction it was her girlfriend.

Imogen finished the call. ‘Need to go. You okay if I just push off now?’

‘You’re okay.’

‘See you soon?’

‘Definitely. Give Alison my love.’

‘Will do.’

Wheeler sat, people-watching, until she saw Buchan cross the room towards her. Saw him smile. Saw that he was attracting glances from some of the other women. She knew if she went home with him and they had sex, that would be it, maybe one more date but then she’d move on. That was her pattern. Maybe Imogen was right; maybe she should give him a chance and at least try to get to know him. Wheeler drained her wine glass and walked towards him. ‘Let’s go for Italian. It’ll give us a chance to get to know each other.’ Even to her it sounded false.

Chapter 20

Ross closed the door behind him, threw the football scarf on the hall table and kicked off his boots. He padded towards the kitchen and almost skidded on the wet.

‘Fuckssake.’ He righted himself. Then he smelled it: sour urine. Dog piss. He switched on the light and saw that the puddle he had walked into had spread across his expensive parquet flooring. He squelched towards the sitting room just as the square-headed dog made a bid for freedom, charging past him, head down, on its way towards the door. Like a miniature bull. If the bull had three legs and wore a plastic cone around its neck.

‘Christ, what a nightmare.’ The dog turned and looked at him. Glanced at the door. Waited.

‘Aye, you want out now, now that you’ve pissed all over the floor.’

The dog wagged her tail, tried to itch the gash on the side of her head but the plastic cone prevented her from reaching it. She whined quietly.

Ross pulled off his socks and walked into the kitchen, shoved them into the washing machine and slammed the door shut on the smell. The dog had followed him and stood watching from the doorway. He stared at her. ‘You, in future, you keep it in until I get back. Cross your fucking legs if you have to.’ He collected the bucket and mop and started the clean-up.

The dog stared. Wagged her tail some more, looked at the door. Whined.

‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m just in out the rain.’

The mutt waited patiently. Then whined again. Paused. Began again.

Ross dumped the mop. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

More whining, this time softer but still insistent.

Ross decided that he couldn’t be arsed going in search of socks, so he just pulled on his boots, feeling the leather harsh against his bare skin. He grabbed the lead. ‘Well, pee-the-bed, let’s go.’

Once outside the flat, he turned left and carried on down Argyle Street, towards the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery. The huge baroque building was floodlit and impressive even in the rain. Ross had been inside often enough to see different exhibitions, though he tended to avoid it when the massive pipe organ was being played. He liked it best when it was quiet and he could be alone with his thoughts and whatever exhibition he’d gone to see. He walked across the grass, the mutt trotting happily beside him. He patted his pocket, checking for poo bags, and walked around the perimeter of the building. They passed the bronze sculpture of St Mungo, the patron saint of Glasgow, fashioned as patron of art and music, and continued over the bridge that crossed the River Kelvin.

They turned right into Byres Road, which was full of revellers spilling out of the pubs and restaurants. Music was blaring out from The Vineyard and Ross ignored a drunk who pointed to the dog and shouted, ‘You walking that thing for a laugh?’ Followed by, ‘Should it no be in the circus?’ They walked on, crossing Byres Road and stopped outside the chippy. Its windows were steamed up and the smell of frying food hit him; his stomach growled in response. He was on the verge of going in when the dog tugged on the lead, crouched down and deposited a steaming poo. Ross bent down, felt the rain run through his hair, knew his jeans were soaked. Grabbed the soft poo in a plastic bag and tied the tops, trying to ignore the smell. As he turned he saw Kat Wheeler coming out of the Italian restaurant opposite. The tall guy she was with was telling her something funny. She laughed up at him. Ross turned and dragged the dog back the way they’d come, depositing the plastic bag in the first bin he saw.

Once home, the dog shook herself over the hall floor before padding through to the sitting room. She jumped onto the sofa and turned in a circle a few times before settling down. She was asleep in seconds, a gentle wheeze emanating from her snout.

Ross was wide awake.

He stood in the hallway deliberating. Not for long. Ten minutes later he was heading east along Argyle Street, towards the station, windscreen wipers humming a rhythmic chorus. He switched on the radio; the sports discussion was midway through.

‘Raith Rovers,’ the presenter laughed, ‘were they robbed tonight, or were Partick Thistle just too good for them? You decide. Call us with your views on—’

‘Fuck off,’ Ross muttered, switched to a music channel, leaned back in his seat as Fairytale of New York began. ‘Bloody Christmas music,’ he leaned forward, his hand hovering for a second before he rested it back on the steering wheel. A few bars in and he was singing along.

Tommy Cunningham was behind the desk and smirked as Ross passed. Ross ignored him, took the stairs to the CID suite two at a time, pulled open the door and was pleased to find it empty. He grabbed a pile of reports that had been left on his desk and settled himself to read through the list of phone messages that had come through following Stewart’s appeal. After the first few pages he crossed to the kettle and switched it on, scooped coffee into a mug and rooted around the room for biscuits. He found some in Boyd’s desk, took two and settled back at his desk. There had been a number of responses to Gilmore’s death but some would be bogus, some would be mistaken and others, well, Ross hoped that they would be helpful. Whoever killed Gilmore was out there watching, waiting and perhaps planning another attack.

Ross turned the page, read through another list of calls, making notes as he went along.

I did it. It was me. No, I didn’t know him before, it was a random attack but it was me. Definitely. The caller had given his name, number and had cheerfully agreed to come into the station to be interviewed. How helpful. Ross put a question mark next to the name. The police had left out much of the detail surrounding the beating, in particular the fact that the body had been hung on a hook. That information was known only to the police and the killer and would help them sift through the time wasters.

Next message. You need to be looking at James Gilmore and Arthur Wright. London. That’s all I’m saying.

Ross read on; the man had been asked for his name and a contact number. Both had been refused. He’d been calling from a public call box somewhere. Ross jotted down the name Arthur Wright, London. Underlined it. Beside it he wrote trace the call. Then he read on.

I think I might have known a guy called James Gilmore. Going back a while now mind you . . . wee guy, ginger hair? ...

I knew James when he was doing his training. I think it was a James Gilmore, not sure now that I think about it, maybe his name was Jamie, that’d be much the same but . . .