‘So we hassle them until they snap?’ said Boyd.

‘Exactly. We know the main players and their teams – let’s make them uncomfortable.’ He smiled. ‘Okay, let’s go with that. I’ll get the word out via Grim and the Chronicle. Might as well try to shake things up a bit.’ Stewart adjusted his tie and marched to the door. Wheeler watched him leave the room, thinking that he was right. They had nothing new and they had nothing to lose by stirring up some bad feeling.

‘You not going through to watch the performance, then? See the big man in action?’ Ross grinned at her, fanning his hand in front of his face. ‘You warm? Only you look a bit flushed.’

Wheeler stood, pushed the reports to the side. ‘Shut it, you. I’m off to the loo, then we’re having a chat with George Grey.’

When she passed Stewart’s office, the door was open and he was sitting behind his desk. Grim was seated on a hard chair facing Stewart. She heard them begin.

‘Good to see you, Grim,’ said Stewart.

‘Likewise, Stewart.’

Neither managed to convey even a hint of sincerity.

‘Okay, enough with the pleasantries – let’s get on. Grim, I want you to run an article on a police crackdown, a type of zero-tolerance, and here’s why.’

Wheeler walked on, made a quick stop at the loo and marched back to her desk. ‘Ross, we’re off to see George Grey.’

Wheeler and Ross pulled up outside a row of tenement buildings that were not scheduled for demolition. But should have been. Ross killed the engine. ‘Let’s give it a second, see if the rain goes off a bit.’ He looked at the houses. ‘We need one of those wee sanitising units. This place is worse than the scheme at Watervale.’

‘Can’t all be trendy West Enders like yourself, Ross.’

‘Right enough.’ He turned to her. ‘Rovers got beat last night.’

Wheeler laughed. ‘So? Is that not a regular occurrence? Surely you can’t be surprised?’

‘Fair enough.’ He paused, stared out at the rain. ‘You out and about yourself?’

She looked at him. ‘Well I wasn’t out watching football, if that’s what you’re asking.’

He waited, ‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Good time?’

Wheeler stepped out of the car. ‘I told you, I went to a lecture on brain scans.’

He waited.

She slammed the door.

He grunted, got out the other side, automatically smoothed down his hair.

She watched him. ‘Don’t think the photographers will be here today. Besides, there’s another bit of dog hair on your jacket. Either your grooming’s slipping or you’re letting that mutt sleep on everything.’

‘Shit.’ He brushed the hairs from his jacket and was locking the door when the half-brick sailed by his head and smashed onto the bonnet of the car. Wheeler spun round and saw three boys running into one of the tenement buildings. The taller of them turned back, his voice ferocious, ‘Fucking scumbag pigs!’ A smaller boy shouted, ‘Oink, oink.’ The third wasn’t quite so humorous: ‘Next time the brick’ll kill you.’ He paused, spat on the ground then followed his friends into the close.

She looked at Ross. ‘It’s a welcome of sorts.’

Ross grabbed the brick and chucked it onto the ground. ‘No point going after them, is there?’

‘What for? We’ll be led a merry dance round the houses. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’ She walked into the mouth of the close. ‘George Grey’s house is on the ground floor, so we’re probably not going to be ambushed.’ Wheeler paused outside a wooden door; the paint was peeling and the central glass panel had been severely cracked and gaffa-taped back together, giving a warped mosaic effect. Wheeler grimaced. ‘I’m thinking industrial chic – what do you think?’

Ross stood beside her and whined, ‘I haven’t even had a chance to digest my breakfast before that crappy wee welcoming committee outside.’

She patted his arm. ‘Aw diddums is all sensitive again. The big boys upset you? Never mind, I’ll buy you coffee and a bun later if you’re good.’ She knocked hard and waited.

A boy of around sixteen answered.

‘You George Grey, son?’

The boy nodded, turned back and shouted into the house, ‘It’s the polis.’

Wheeler looked at Ross. ‘Are we that obvious?’ They flashed their ID but the boy had already turned away.

They followed the boy into a dank hallway, the wallpaper flaked and torn, and through into a cramped room. The smell of damp hung in the air. George stood in the filthy kitchen. ‘I’m just havin’ ma breakfast. That okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘You want some?’

They shook their heads. ‘Thanks anyway.’ Wheeler waited while he scraped the dregs from a margarine tub and smoothed it over two pieces of pan bread, then took a handful of crisps from an opened packet and laid them on the bread. Squeezed on a good dollop of budget-range tomato ketchup, put the two slices of bread together and scrunched down hard. Opened a can of Irn-Bru and slurped about half of it down before looking up at them. ‘School said you’d come and talk to me.’ He walked through into the sitting room. ‘Whit aboot?’

Wheeler and Ross followed him into the room. Wheeler tried to ignore the cloying smell of urine and stale vomit and walked towards the sofa. She perched herself on the arm, avoiding the worst of the damp and mould. She battled to understand why social services couldn’t improve a place like this. Fumigate it maybe. But then what? Demolition would be an answer.

‘We need to have a wee word about Mr Gilmore. But it can wait till you’ve finished your breakfast.’

She watched George Grey start on his sandwich. He was about five-five. Thin, greasy strands of hair fell in defeated layers over a bony forehead. He wasn’t just skinny, he was painfully emaciated. He settled himself on a greasy beanbag and stared at her. Dark eyes peered out from his gaunt face. They were the darkest blue she had ever seen, but she had never seen an expression so lacking in hope, so soulless. If she had to name it, George Grey was the walking dead. She sighed; he was like other terminally neglected children, whose life was over before it had really begun. A part of him had already died. What remained was what she had to interview.

She shifted on the arm of the sofa, listened to someone retch in the bathroom above, heard the cistern flush, then a hacking cough sound, until finally she heard footsteps on the bare stairs. A skeletal man wearing a stained vest and jogging bottoms wheezed his way into the room and stood in front of her.

‘I’m DI Wheeler and this is my colleague DI Ross.’ They flashed their ID again.

The man ignored their cards. ‘The filth? The school said you’d be round. Whit’s the matter, you cannae solve sumthin’ and you want to pick on George?’

‘We just need to ask your step-son a couple of questions.’

‘See, that’s where you’re wrong, right off, hen. I’m no his step-da. His da scarpered long ago. My name’s MacIntyre, William MacIntyre, and,’ he pointed to George with his right hand showing the three stumps that used to be fingers, ‘that there’s no step-wean o’ mine.’

Ross coughed. ‘Guardian?’

‘Ah live wi’ his ma. Is that good enough fur you?’ He leaned in towards her and Wheeler got the benefit of a mouth full of decaying teeth. She stared instead at the gnarled stumps. Wheeler wondered how he had lost the fingers; it didn’t look like they had been created by professional medical intervention. She turned away and faced George, waited a second until he had swallowed the last of his drink, then she began.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Mr Gilmore was found dead at his home on Monday evening.’

George nodded. ‘Aye, I heard he copped it.’

‘Whit? Gilmore’s deid?’ MacIntyre flopped onto the sofa.

‘You knew him, Mr MacIntyre?’

‘No well – he worked with George though, didn’t he?’

George nodded.

‘Can you remember the last time you saw him, George?’

‘Last week, I think it was Tuesday.’ He paused. ‘Aye it was Tuesday, ’cause right after I talked to him I had to go and get changed. We had P.E.’