‘So you warned them off?’

Smithy nodded.

‘So, what next? They’ll go home and tell their wee pals, what exactly?’

‘Not to squeal.’

‘Or else, what?’

Chest out, flabby thumb prodding his chest. ‘They’ll get it from me.’

‘And then the polis will come after you?’

‘Mibbe.’ The smirk was back in place. ‘But I’ll no say anything. I’ll stay schtum.’ Smithy made a zipping gesture across his mouth.

‘Is that right?’

Again the tone.

Smithy swallowed.

‘And when the polis can’t be arsed wasting their time going after a fuck-up like you, they’ll aim a bit higher. Mibbe they’ll ask around, see who you work for and then mibbe they’ll come and pay me a wee visit? Seeing as now they have a convenient link from me to James Gilmore via the two wee boys, thanks to you.’

Smithy tried to steady himself but the sway was way too obvious.

Chapter 27

The smell in the CID suite was of dust, dampness and old ghosts. Two uniformed officers had joined Boyd and Robertson, who were working slowly and methodically through James Gilmore’s possessions. The seals on the cardboard boxes had been broken and the contents grouped into piles. Robertson sat at his desk in a fog of aftershave and began sifting through more papers. Old bank statements had been paperclipped together. ‘Nothing much out of the ordinary – mortgage, electricity and gas all paid by direct debit. A few cash withdrawals, usually fifty or sixty pounds at a time. If anything was stolen, it doesn’t look like they managed to get very far. Certainly, no one’s hacked into Gilmore’s account.’ Robertson continued muttering to himself.

Boyd stood up, stretched and headed towards the kettle; the uniforms had made their own coffee earlier so he turned to Robertson: ‘You want a coffee?’

Silence. Robertson kept on reading.

‘Hey, Robertson, you’re miles away.’

Robertson glanced up. ‘What?’

‘You want a coffee?’

‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ He turned back to his box. ‘You seen the secondment that’s up for grabs?’

Boyd scooped two heaped spoonfuls of coffee into a greasy mug. ‘Nope, but you have – can’t wait for promotion to come around?’

Robertson shrugged. ‘What can I say, I’m ambitious. Need to get on.’

‘I’m too knackered to even think of it.’

‘You look shattered.’

‘Cheers for that. It’s the new girlfriend – she’s keeping me up all night.’

Robertson pursed his lips, turned away, busied himself. ‘What about your wife?’

‘I never mention the new girlfriend; it’d only upset her.’

Stewart strode into the room. ‘Remember, you two, press conference in an hour. Mind and scrub up. Boyd, try to look less like a criminal waster and more like a police officer.’

Boyd smiled. ‘Will do.’ He nodded to a female officer in uniform who’d come into the room. ‘You want to give me a hand going through this stuff?’ He handed her a pile of papers, receipts, bills and envelopes. There was a stack of parking tickets on top. ‘Sorry it smells a bit. His house was damp.’

She took the pile and sat at a desk, began sorting.

Boyd took his coffee and began flicking through the photographs in another box. There were old cards, scraps of notepaper that Gilmore had scribbled on. Boyd held up an old birthday card – the writing inside was thick, etched into the paper. It was signed, ‘Moira and Murdo Gilmore. Your parents.’

‘Who signs birthday cards “your parents”?’ He showed it to the female officer.

‘This it then?’ A young constable had entered the room and stood amidst the boxes.

‘’Fraid so.’ Boyd nodded to a box. ‘Everything that was found has been recorded and now we get to have a nosy through.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Musty. Damp.’

‘Depressing,’ muttered the constable, looking through the contents of the box. ‘It’s not much to show for a life, is it?’ He scanned the pile. ‘Old bits of paper, parking tickets, stuff cut out of magazines. A pile of old photography magazines. Why bother? It’s the digital age.’

‘He seemed to be stuck in a different era,’ Boyd agreed, dredging through more paperwork.

‘Even my wee granny has a camera on her phone and she’s ancient.’ The constable kept searching.

‘Maybe he liked the romance of developing his own photographs? Ever heard of Avedon, Arnold, Doisneau?’

‘No,’ replied the constable.

‘Christ, that makes me feel old.’ Boyd had stopped sifting and had begun searching through his desk for biscuits. Found some.

‘This stuff seems to echo the house though,’ said Robertson. ‘Everything’s kind of dying. I mean it’s all so tatty, so tired.’ Robertson sounded depressed. ‘A life not lived to the full.’

‘Garbage really,’ the constable offered. ‘Why did he even want to keep all of this?’

‘People do though, don’t they, they stuff it all in the attic or the garage. Hoarders. It’s a condition,’ suggested Boyd.

‘It’s all rubbish though, isn’t it?’ the constable repeated.

‘Garbage,’ agreed Boyd, glancing through a dusty photograph album. ‘Gilmore as a child on a bike . . . at school . . . class photograph . . . university graduation . . . someone’s wedding.’ Gilmore was five foot six, and was thin with wary eyes. In the photographs he wore checked shirts, grey ties, tweed jackets. Nothing bright, nothing stylish. It seemed that James Gilmore had never wanted to stand out. ‘Nondescript.’ Boyd closed the album. ‘Just the same information we heard from the schools.’ He glanced at Robertson. ‘Anything else?’

‘Nothing that stands out, no big gambling debts, no Sky sports package. Gets through a fair bit of cash though.’ He flicked through the statements. ‘Doesn’t go into overdraft but cuts it fine every month. I didn’t see much in the house to reflect this.’

‘Maybe he paid for his mother’s care?’ said Boyd.

‘No, she’s a woman with means; seems her husband Murdo was a very successful academic – he’s written quite a few textbooks and left her with more than enough for her care.’

‘Bookies?’ suggested Boyd.

‘Then he was on a losing streak.’

‘In more ways than one.’

An hour later and they had left the uniforms to continue. Boyd was working at his computer and Robertson was beginning to work on the set of keys.

Stewart strolled into the room, perched himself on the edge of a desk. ‘I’ve put the press conference back half an hour,’ he tapped one foot impatiently, ‘so what’ve we got?’

Robertson patted the papers on his desk. ‘Just finished trawling through this lot, boss. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next up I’ll check the keys, see if I can locate where they were used.’ He held up a key with an electronic tag attached. This looks like the most interesting.’

‘A lock-up, maybe, or a storage unit?’

‘Nothing about the company, no name.’

‘Odd.’

‘I’ll call round, see if I can find out which companies use this kind of tag.’

Stewart turned to Boyd. ‘Anything?’

Boyd put down his second cup of coffee and tapped the computer screen. ‘Still going through Gilmore’s diary. He was at a charity do last month at the River Hotel.’

‘Expensive place,’ said Stewart.

‘Fundraiser for a kids’ charity,’ Boyd scrolled down the screen, ‘the twenty-second of November.’

‘And?’ Stewart asked.

‘High-profile dinner, auction and everything. Lord Provost and loads of high heid yins at it. But only a couple of folk we’re interested in.’ He scrolled down the page and clicked on the mouse. A slide show began and he clicked through it until he found what he was looking for. He turned the screen towards Stewart.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘Overview of the tables, see,’ he pointed, ‘here and here.’

Stewart looked at the picture while Boyd talked him through his find. ‘Here’s Andy Doyle holding court at one table.’ Stewart stared at the picture; Doyle was chatting, hands mid-air, making a point to a thin man seated next to him. On the other side of Doyle, Stella was wearing an off-the-shoulder silver dress that showed too much cleavage. Her eyes were shining as she smiled at Doyle.