It’s four a.m. and the Dreamer stirs in his sleep, puts a finger to his mouth and scrapes at the skin on his lips until blood seeps onto the pillow, then his fingers worry at the side of the sheet, kneading and pressing it into submission. His nostrils flare. It is the smell he remembers best, the coppery smell that drenched the room. The Dreamer smiles, remembering how he’d stood over the body and inhaled deeply as particles of airborne blood had entered his mouth and he’d held them there for as long as he could before forcing them far into his lungs, willing them to become part of his fibre. Gilmore’s blood. The smell of coppers in his pocket, the smell of loose change. That was what Gilmore’s blood had smelled of, loose change. But he was worth less. The Dreamer’s hands clench and unclench, a frown flits across his forehead; darting in and out of his emotions are feelings of relief, of a spring finally being allowed to uncoil. The Dreamer’s hands stop their fretting and he lets himself fall further into a deep sleep.

Chapter 24

Wednesday, 11 December

The Kelvingrove Art Gallery lies in the shadow of Glasgow University and the River Kelvin passes close by. Myth has it that the building was built back to front and when the architect discovered this he hurled himself to instant death from one of the towers. This is untrue but generations of Glaswegians have passed it down as fact, preferring the colourful lie to bald truth. A series of early-morning lectures, The Breakfast History of Art, was being piloted at the Kelvingrove.

It was seven a.m. and it would have been her day off had James Gilmore not been murdered, but Wheeler had booked the session months in advance and was determined to go. She sat in the semi-darkness of the building and listened. ‘. . . And voted Glasgow’s favourite painting,’ finished the guide, pointing a grubby, nail-bitten finger at the picture. Wheeler peered at Salvador Dali’s masterpiece. The early lecture meant that she got to forget about dead bodies and traipse round the Gallery listening to ideas that were a million miles away from police work. Just her and other art lovers. As the lecture took place hours before the usual opening times there were no chattering school groups, no exhausted mothers with pushchairs sheltering from the weather, no folk who’d nowhere else to go and just wanted to be somewhere warm and quiet. They would all come later. For now, it was just her and peace and quiet and pictures. And the coffee bar for a caffeine hit.

Wheeler felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket, fished it out and surreptitiously glanced at it. Mobiles were to be turned off during the lecture. It was Ross.

U at that arty-farty thing? I’m close by. Fancy a coffee when it’s done?

She managed just two characters.

OK.

She stared at the painting, Christ of Saint John of the Cross. Christ on the cross, with no blood, no gore, just as Dali saw it in his vision. Peaceful. The picture had an eerie silence about it, as if she were spying on God. She found it both beautiful and unsettling. She bent and looked at the painting sideways, felt herself sway. It was something about the angle. She gave up on the picture, preferring instead to sit in the silence and drink in the atmosphere of the place. To get it almost to herself was a delight. More than a million souls visited the place every year and during normal opening hours she’d been hard pressed to get anywhere near her favourite pictures.

She took a stroll along the corridors, the marble floor absorbing her footsteps, the dim lights casting a permanent calm across the arches, the huge blocks of sandstone glowing after their recent deep clean. She passed the bronze sculpture of Madame Renoir and on to the gallery hosting the Scottish Colourists. The gallery was empty, so she wandered in and stood in front of the paintings and once again wished that her police salary would stretch to her owning an original. Her flat was home to five large framed prints but it wasn’t the same as having an original. She wondered about the tiny J.D. Fergusson drawing in Moira Gilmore’s apartment – what would happen to it after she passed away?

Wheeler stood in front of Fergusson’s Torse de Femme and studied it, saw the energy and the passion in the brush strokes, then she studied Cadell’s The Orange Blind, felt the calm, reflective energy of the painting soothe her. She wandered among the paintings, noting colour, line and composition until, finally, it was time to go. She left by the Argyle Street entrance, turned left and waited on the Kelvin Way for him. After a few minutes she turned back towards the tenement flats and started walking. She soon saw him. Ross had a dog on its lead; in the other hand he held a pile of plastic poo bags. The three-legged dog looked like a cross between a pit-bull and an alien. Wheeler walked up behind him.

‘God, but that’s ugly. And it’s got its head in a plastic cone. Nightmare.’

Ross turned, tried to laugh but couldn’t pull it off.

‘That your wee pet then?’ Wheeler continued.

He nodded. Blushed.

‘Not quite the babe magnet I’d envisaged. Still, I bet you’ve got a wee soft spot for it.’ She bent down, patted the dog. ‘Its head’s awfully square, how’s that?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Something happen when it was a pup?’

‘Don’t know. Haven’t had it that long.’

‘And it’s got a nasty wee gash on its head as well.’

She straightened up, put two and two together. ‘Let me guess. You got it right after you wrecked the car.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

Ross shuffled his feet, stared at the dog. ‘Can’t be sure – it’s a while back now.’

But she knew she had him, saw the blush start again, first at the bottom of his neck and then work its way up. ‘Either you ran into the wee runt or swerved to avoid it. Which is it?’

‘Avoid. Somebody chucked it out of their car. I never even got the registration. Scabby car, kicked in, think it was a Fiesta. It was a stormy night.’

‘It had all its legs then?’

‘What?’

‘The mutt.’

‘No, still just the three.’

‘So you swerved, mangled the pool car, police property mind, and then went to rescue Fido, the three-legged, square-headed mutt? You’re a hero.’

Ross turned away. ‘It’s not an it, it’s a her. And the vet says the cone can come off in a week or so. Anyway, I need to be getting her back. We still on for coffee?’

‘You’re a soft muppet. I’ll walk slow; catch me up when you drop it off.’

‘Her.’

‘Apologies, her. What’s her name?’

‘Haven’t given her one yet.’

Wheeler looked at the dog. ‘Is “I’m-a-lucky-wee-shite” too obvious? Or just too long?’

Ross said nothing. Turned and began walking back, the dog trotting obediently after him, her nose in the air.

Wheeler crossed the road and walked back along University Avenue, taking her time, ignoring the rain and thinking about the case. She had turned into Great Western Road by the time Ross caught up with her.

‘Where to?’ He was out of breath.

‘Where do you fancy, Ross? My treat, since you rescued a wee dug, so you get to wear the hero’s badge for the day. All day.’ She couldn’t help the smirk.

He stared at her. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘What? Wouldn’t buy you breakfast?’

‘Wouldn’t do what you’re thinking of doing.’

‘Might do.’

‘No, even you’re not that evil.’

‘What? You don’t want your chums at the station to get wind of your heroics? Or a description of your ugly wee friend? Which is it?’

Ross walked ahead, just enough that she knew he was in the huff. But not so much that she withdrew her offer of breakfast.

They settled into the café, steam obscuring the windows. It was still early and the café wasn’t yet full.