‘Was there anything unusual about him? Did he seem nervous or tense?’

‘Naw.’

‘How’d he croak it?’ MacIntyre’s voice was low. Feral, sleekit. His left hand rubbed at the stumps, massaging the wrinkled skin.

Wheeler stared at him. ‘You didn’t see it reported on the telly or read anything in the Chronicle about it?’

MacIntyre sniffed and then coughed up a ball of phlegm, rolled it around his mouth, swallowed. ‘Flu, hen, I’ve been out of the game for a few days.’

Wheeler had noticed the track marks, fresh, not old. Heroin, just as Nancy Paton had told them. If MacIntyre had been out of it for a few days it was because he’d scored enough to keep him in his own personal nirvana. ‘Is Mrs Grey able to speak with us?’

He jerked a thumb at the ceiling. ‘She’s in her bed – she’s got a dose of the flu as well, right enough.’ He gnawed on his thumb nail. ‘So, how’d he die, then? Whit happened?’

She heard the tremor in his voice. Noted it. Watched George take his empty can of Irn-Bru into the kitchen, heard him scrunch it into the bin, and she kept her voice low while watching MacIntyre’s reaction. ‘He was found murdered in his home, Mr MacIntyre.’

‘Not very nice.’ Ross stared at MacIntyre, watching his pale face turn yellow.

‘Fuckssake.’ MacIntyre shuddered, then he rounded on them. ‘And you arses are trying to pin it on George, is that it?’

‘Why would you think that?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Cause that’s what pigs dae.’ MacIntyre glowered at her like a malevolent gargoyle.

‘We’re just trying to find out if Mr Gilmore seemed in any way different over the past few weeks. It might help us with our enquiries.’

‘Well, George’s telt you he wis jist the same, noo beat it. Scram.’ MacIntyre started shaking, first his hands, then his arms; finally his whole body was twitching. George stood in the doorway watching.

Wheeler stood. ‘Can you remember anything unusual about Mr Gilmore, George? Hear of anyone threaten him or someone who might want to harm him?’

The boy stared at the stained carpet, his voice still. ‘Don’t know nothing about him. Hardly ever saw him.’

She tried for eye contact. ‘You sure?’

George blinked at the carpet. ‘Sure.’

Outside the weather had begun in earnest; sleet fell in horizontal sheets as they made their way back to the car.

‘Well, William MacIntyre’s a right ladies’ man – what a charmer. Ross, he could teach you a thing or two.’

‘Aye. I thought so.’

‘He was awful freaked about Gilmore’s death, considering that he never really knew the man.’

‘Aye, I thought he looked a bit too shaken up about someone he’d barely known. Doesn’t seem the type to waste time with emotions. Doesn’t figure.’

‘Agreed. He knows more than he’s letting on.’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell with junkies. See the shaking – he needed his fix. And all that stuff about flu was complete bollocks.’

‘Flu symptoms,’ she agreed, ‘otherwise known as withdrawal symptoms.’

Ross patted his stomach. ‘Is it time for our coffee pow-wow yet?’

‘You still needing a wee coffee after all that food earlier?’

‘I was up early.’

‘Running?’

‘Running, then walking the dog – can’t all be swanning about at arty-farty lectures.’

‘Wimp.’

‘I’m starved.’

‘Your metabolism’s out of whack.’

‘It’s pretty efficient,’ he said proudly. ‘It’s all the exercise.’

She took out her phone. ‘I’ll phone in for a quick recce to see if there’s been any developments.’

‘Yeah, we can’t be expected to do all the work.’

She stared at him. ‘You’re a skiver, Ross.’

‘I’m hurt. I was at the station till late last night.’

‘Turn up anything?’

‘Just the two calls.’

She settled herself into the car, punched in the number for the station. ‘I’m impressed, Ross. You’ll soon just about have earned your acting DI.’

He ignored her, drove quickly but made sure he kept inside the speed limit. Listened to Wheeler speak with Boyd.

Twenty minutes later Wheeler and Ross sat in the back of the café. They ordered two coffees and two Danish pastries.

‘I’ll be back in a jiff.’ Ross raced out.

He was back before the coffee arrived.

‘What’s wrong? Scared I’d ask you to pay?’

‘Nope, just needed to get some of this.’ He held up a small spray-bottle of hand sanitiser. ‘Want some?’

She shook her head. ‘Once again. You’re a wimp.’

He squirted gel onto both palms and rubbed them together vigorously. ‘No, but MacIntyre’s house, bloody hell. I felt itchy just sitting there. Lice, nits and fleas, take your pick.’

‘I know, but what the head teacher said was right – George Grey is a poor wee soul. Do you think he could have had anything to do with Gilmore’s death?’

‘Stranger things,’ Ross said as the coffee and buns arrived, ‘stranger things.’

Chapter 26

Doyle sipped scalding black coffee and then spoke. ‘Yeah, Weirdo, he’s on his way in to see me. Tell Manky good work.’ He switched off the phone and waited. A few minutes later, he heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in.’

Smithy waddled across the carpet, hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit top, voice chirpy. ‘Mr D, you needed to see me?’

Doyle studied the walk, thought he detected a hint of swagger. Kept his voice reasonable. ‘Tell me Smithy, have you got a death wish?’

The hint of a swagger disappeared. ‘I’m not with you?’

‘Easy enough question, Smithy.’

Silence.

‘HAVE YOU GOT A FUCKING DEATH WISH?’

Smithy looked at the carpet, then at the Gaggia, looking for an answer, any answer. Came up with none. Decided on the direct approach. ‘No?’

Doyle stared at him. ‘See, that’s not how it appears. Unless I’ve got it wrong, I run this outfit. Right?’

‘Right, Mr Doyle.’

‘And so when I hear about a shitty fat toerag like you going it alone, ACTING SOLO, then I get concerned.’

Confusion. Panic. A flash of guilt. Tried to hide it. Failed. ‘I never, I never sold anything on, honest.’ He moved from foot to foot. Scratched his neck. Coughed.

‘I’m not talking about the merchandise, Smithy.’ Doyle waited.

Eventually, ‘I never said nothing to Stella, Mr Doyle, honest. I mean she’s a lovely lassie and all that but I never . . . honest . . . no’ for a minute . . .’

‘I’m no’ talking about Stella. Take a minute, Smithy, have a think. When were you last a right arse? Care to hazard a guess?’

Doyle watched Smithy’s face contort. Heard his breathing quicken. Could almost smell the sweat. Waited. Then waited some more. Eventually he put him out of his misery. ‘See that’s a worry, that you can’t remember being an arse.’

Smithy rubbed a hand across the fold of fat that was his neck. His fingers glistened with sweat.

‘I’m talking about scaring two wee boys half to death last night. Or can you not remember driving my four-by-four across waste ground? Does it not ring any bells?’ Doyle watched the colour spread up Smithy’s neck, waited until his face and neck were inflamed before adding, ‘See, that makes me angry.’

‘I was just showing some initiative.’ His voice a squeak.

‘You, Smithy, aren’t paid to think. You’re certainly not paid to act out your own wee gangster fantasies. You’re paid to do what I tell you. That’s all.’

Smithy sighed, relieved. ‘Aye, right ye are, Mr Doyle. Just thought the wee shits needed a scare.’ Rubbed some more sweat from his neck. Wiped his damp fingers on the sleeve of his fleece.

‘How so?’

‘I asked them if they’d taken anything from Gilmore’s. Said no.’

‘You believe them?’

Relaxed smirk. ‘Hard to tell with them wee pricks.’

‘Is that right?’

Smithy heard the tone. Stopped talking. Stopped smirking. Almost stopped breathing.