‘So the producer guy, what’s he done?’

‘Nothing as far as I’m aware of; it’s another man we’re interested in. Mr James Gilmore? He also attended the event.’

‘Him and a few hundred others. I do remember talking to the producer guy – what was his name again?’

‘Jay Haddington.’

‘That’s it. Haddington.’

‘Do you remember what you spoke about?’

‘He wanted money for his new play. Investors. Thought I might give it a punt.’

‘Didn’t have you down as a thespian, Mr Doyle.’ Ross kept his voice smooth.

‘There might be a part in the play for Stella, so it’s a win-win situation.’

Wheeler brought out the photograph of Gilmore she’d taken from the school records. ‘Can you take a look at this please and see if it rings any bells?’

Doyle took the photograph from her, stared at it for a few seconds before shaking his head. ‘Can’t help you. As far as I can tell, I’ve never met him before. Mibbe he was at the charity do, but I didn’t meet him.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye, certain.’ He gave her back the photograph. ‘Why would I lie?’

She let the question stand for a minute.

‘Aren’t you curious why we’re here?’

‘Seeing as you’re polis, I can hazard a guess. Either this Mr Gilmore’s done something or someone’s done something to him. You’re not uniform, so it’s a bit higher up the pecking order. A wee jolly for the CID, so let’s say there’s been some kind of an assault. Am I right?’

Ross nodded. ‘In the general ball park. Amazing.’

Doyle warmed to the subject. ‘Not one but two cops from the CID, so let’s go “double or quits”: he’s either attacked or killed somebody or somebody’s attacked or killed him. Am I close?’

Wheeler: ‘You’re psychic.’

‘Sunday night. Would you mind telling us where you were?’ said Ross.

‘And since you asked about Sunday night, I’d imagine that’s when it happened,’ Doyle smiled, revealing too-even teeth, the result of expensive dentistry.

‘Would you mind telling us where you were?’ Ross repeated.

Doyle looked past them, studied the sky. ‘Would I mind?’

Wheeler kept her voice calm. ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Here. I was here with Stella, watching the telly.’

‘What was on the telly on Sunday?’

‘We watched a box set. One of Stella’s – I think it was Mad Men.’

‘And I’m sure Stella will back you,’ Ross said.

‘What do you think?’ Doyle smiled and continued, ‘And since I’ve told you I was home all night and it can be,’ he glanced at Ross, ‘corroborated, then you want me to help you. See if I can recall meeting James Gilmore anywhere?’

They waited.

‘And after that, to see if I can think of any wee toerags that either he might want to harm or who might want to harm him.’ Doyle laughed. ‘Is that not kind of like me doing your job for you?’

Wheeler put the photograph back in her pocket. ‘Not quite. It’s called cooperating with the police. And a man has been murdered.’

‘Has he now? I wonder what he did to piss someone off?’

‘So, if you do remember anything, or think of anything at all, regardless of how small or insignificant it may seem . . .’

Doyle smiled and held open the door. ‘Then you’ll be the first to know,’ he paused, Katherine.’

She spun round. ‘It’s Detective Inspector Wheeler.’

The smile had vanished; instead his dark eye glittered. ‘Whatever you say.’

The door closed quietly behind them.

They turned back towards the car.

Ross: ‘How come he knows your name?’

‘He could’ve picked it up anywhere. I shouldn’t have reacted. He was just playing games.’

‘Very cocky guy, very sure of himself.’

Wheeler opened the car door. ‘Folk that are too sure of themselves have more chance of slipping up.’

‘Still think he’s involved?’

‘Let’s just say I think Doyle is involved in many things. Meantime, let’s go find out who else was on that list for the charity do.’

Chapter 30

They were back at the station within the hour. Wheeler paused at the desk to talk to TC. Ross headed up the stairs. In the CID suite Robertson’s aftershave hung in the air but his chair was empty.

‘Where’s the boy wonder then?’ Ross threw his jacket over his own chair and settled himself at his desk. The room was busy and hummed with the sound of both CID staff and uniformed officers talking on the phone, tapping at their computers, reading notes and compiling reports.

‘While you were skiving off to visit Andy Doyle, some of us were doing the real police work.’ Boyd finished off a chocolate biscuit and brushed the crumbs from his shirt.

‘Oh aye, what’s that then?’ Ross said. ‘Scoffing biscuits, chatting with our local reporters after the press conference?’

Boyd tut-tutted his disapproval. ‘Nope, I’ve been collating vital evidence, Ross. Surely you must remember it? It’s part of police procedure. Cast your mind back to what they taught you at Tulliallan. I know it’s a bit of an ask but go on, give it a go.’

‘Ho ho ho. Very funny,’ said Ross.

‘Aye, hysterical – am I not just Santa’s little helper?’

‘So what have you come up with apart from your “I’m a proper little helper elf” routine?’

Boyd swallowed the last of his coffee and licked his lips before replying, ‘Forensics eventually got back to us. A fingerprint, well not a whole one, that would be too much to ask, but a partial turned up at Gilmore’s.’

‘You get a match?’

‘Robertson’s off trying to find a match, but it’s quite an unusual fingerprint, so there’s hope.’

‘How so?’

‘It’s the shape of the whorl – it seems too flat, it’s an odd shape.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ Ross said.

‘Look.’ Boyd pointed to the copy of the fingerprint. Ross went over to him, stood behind him, ‘Go on.’

‘Whorls on fingerprints are usually kind of like a spiral, going round; this one looks like it’s been flattened. And also there’s an old scar. So it looks pretty hopeful – if our guy’s on file then we’re onto him.’ Boyd couldn’t keep the enthusiasm from his voice.

‘I hope we’ve got him on file.’ Ross went back to his desk. ‘Maybe we’ve turned a corner in the case.’

‘If we have, you owe me one.’

‘It’s not a bloody trade-off. I was out talking to George Grey and seeing Andy Doyle – hardly a wee jolly.’

‘Since when does skiving off for a wee chat count as work?’

Ross scrunched up a piece of A4 and lobbed it at Boyd’s head. It struck home.

Boyd ignored it. ‘As I said, we do the real police work here. Talking of the man, did you get anything from Doyle?’

‘Not a sausage. He’s the complete innocent.’

‘Aye right, he just employs others to do his dirty work for him. Anything from the wee boy, George Grey?’

‘Zero. Saw nothing suspicious, heard even less. The last time he saw Gilmore, he was the same as usual, nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘Waste of time?’

‘Guy who’s living there, William MacIntyre, was freaked about Gilmore’s death. Didn’t strike me as the caring type. Did you lot find anything else or is the partial it?’ asked Ross.

Boyd shrugged. ‘Not much. Still wading through the boxes and Robertson’s trying to identify all the keys. The poor wee lad’s cross-eyed with concentration. I think he reckons if he can crack the case single-handedly then promotion will be the next step. If not that then a wee stint somewhere cushy on a secondment. The only flaw in his plan is he’s underestimating just how much you’ll miss him. I think he’s inspired by you getting the acting job, Ross, and he reckons it’s his turn next.’

‘That’ll be shining bright,’ Ross huffed. ‘He’s got no chance of a secondment; the boy’s a dreamer. He needs to put in the graft first, like I did.’

Boyd guffawed.

‘And the keys could just be some old set,’ Ross continued. ‘Folk hang onto all sorts of rubbish.’