Boyd belched. ‘Suppose. You getting any more grief about the accident? TC was going on about it again. He reckons that you should resit your driving test and that we should all get to watch. A wee afternoon of spectator sport.’

‘He’s an old shit-stirring git.’

‘Is it going any further?’

Ross shook his head. ‘They’re letting it lie.’

‘You’re a lucky bastard Ross, you know that don’t you? Teflon fucking coated.’

Ross sniffed, crossed to the kettle, switched it on. ‘There was no harm done.’

‘There was no one else on the road, you mean.’ Boyd dropped his voice. ‘Were you pissed?’

‘What do you think?’ Ross tried for his best hurt look. ‘I’m a cop. Remember?’

‘I’m only asking, so, what happened?’

‘Nothing bloody happened – it was a dark night, stormy. Typical winter weather. End of story. Accidents happen all the time.’

‘All’s well that ends well, then?’

‘Aye, will be if we crack this case. At least the partial fingerprint’s a breakthrough. And there’s a wee link to Doyle.’

‘And Rovers might get promoted,’ Boyd laughed.

‘I’m not holding my breath.’ Ross spooned coffee into the mug, poured boiling water over it.

‘Best not to, given their form.’

‘Ho ho ho.’

‘Very festive.’ Wheeler marched into the room, dumped her coat on the chair. ‘That coffee for me?’

Ross handed it over.

‘Got the full list of people who attended the charity do at the River Hotel.’ She gave Boyd her best smile. ‘It’ll be painstaking work, sifting through it.’

‘I’ll bet.’ He stared at his computer. ‘I pity the poor sod that gets it.’

‘But for the right candidate, the right kind of CID guy . . . an ambitious go-getter, who’s also a team player . . .’ she trailed off.

The penny dropped. ‘You’re joking, right? More desk-bound stuff? I’ll be losing the use of my legs.’

‘That’s more to do with the new girlfriend,’ muttered Ross.

‘I’ll stand you a bacon roll and a coffee,’ Wheeler offered.

‘Already had one earlier, thanks.’ Boyd stared harder at his computer.

‘And a biscuit a minute ago,’ Ross added.

‘Can’t be tempted?’ Wheeler held out the list of names to Boyd. ‘As a big favour? You know I’m rubbish at lists.’

‘Only the girlfriend’s doing a sponsored walk,’ Boyd said, changing the subject.

‘That right?’ Wheeler said. ‘What’s it for?’

‘Local cat and dog home. She’s a soft muppet for strays.’

‘She must be if she took you on.’ Wheeler glanced across at Ross. He ignored her but Wheeler saw the blush rise up his neck; he was waiting for her to tell Boyd about his ugly wee three-legged pal. She sighed, ‘I’m surrounded by nutters – what’s the damage?’

Boyd slid the sponsor form across the table. ‘A fiver and we’re on, a tenner and it’ll get priority.’

Wheeler took a five-pound note from her purse. ‘It’ll be a fiver and it’ll be priority.’

Boyd relented. ‘Throw in a chocolate bar as well then. Looking at that lot I’ll need another sugar hit in an hour or two.’

‘You know I’ve got a soft spot for you, Boyd, don’t you?’ Wheeler handed him the list and signed the sponsor form.

‘Aye,’ he took them, ‘it’s a ditch in the Cathkin Braes, where all the bodies are buried.’

Ross opened his drawer and took out the notes, opened the search engine on his computer and typed in Arthur Wright, London. Waited. ‘Shit.’

‘What, you Googled him?’

‘Yep.’

Boyd smiled. ‘About a million hits?’

‘Yep.’ Ross scanned a few, closed the link. ‘There must be thousands of links to Arthur Wright or Arthur or Wright.’

‘Might be bogus – you know how many nutters there are out there. Trying to be helpful but muddying the waters instead. You get a trace on the calls yet?’

‘Not yet,’ Ross picked up the phone. ‘I was just going to chase that up.’

In the corner a young uniformed officer picked up a file from the desk and made for the stairs; once outside he paused to quickly text.

In the offices of the Chronicle Grim read the text: Found partial fingerprint, no one we know. Still searching database in hope of match.

Grim smiled – he had more for his next article than Stewart had given the rest of them at the press conference. He texted back: Keep at it and keep me informed – we have a deal remember. Clicked send. Grim looked out of his office window; the sky was grey and the rain had started again. He grinned.

Chapter 31

Ivan Saunders sat in his office looking out of the window at the crowds streaming into Glasgow Central Station, their umbrellas bobbing in a haphazard dance. He held his mobile in one hand, clamped to his ear, and a cigarette in the other, on which he puffed furiously between sentences. In his ten years as a private investigator, he had yet to encounter a tone as condescending as the one adopted by his newest client.

He listened to the old lady rant ‘. . . feral this . . . scum that’. Apparently she knew her son would wind up dead; she’d been waiting for the visit from the police for years. Saunders stubbed out his cigarette on a cracked saucer which was already overflowing with butts and began doodling some of the phrases the old lady was wittering about. He’d bet his fee that she’d hit the sherry bottle already. ‘. . . James . . . worked with . . . underprivileged kids . . . tough area of the city . . . Watervale.’ He gently placed the mobile on the desk top and quietly relit another cigarette; when he picked up the phone again, she was still talking. He puffed on his cigarette, greedily inhaling the nicotine as he listened to her talk out her rage, only occasionally interjecting, ‘Yes, the police aren’t the brightest bulbs in the box, are they? No, I agree, couldn’t find a needle in the proverbial . . . Of course I’ll report directly back to you . . .’

He ground the butt of the second cigarette on the saucer and wound up the conversation. ‘Yeah, I’ll start right now, I’ll go along to the area, yep, I’ll check out Watervale and ask around a bit, then take a look around the other areas . . . Yep, Mrs Gilmore, I’ve got it, but we already covered this when I came out to the Courtyard to see you.’ He hadn’t liked the old woman’s tone then, even less now.

He ended the call, reopened his packet of cigarettes and lit his third. He was sure that the old lady was onto nothing and that he was wasting his time and her money: whoever battered James Gilmore to death was a professional and knew enough to cover his tracks. If the police had no new evidence – and Saunders presumed that they didn’t – then he could easily bank on a few days’ work from the old lady. He doubted that he’d find anything but he’d be earning money for a change. He picked up his keys, pocketed his cigarettes, turned off the lights and locked the office. He hoped, not for the first time, that Strathclyde Police wouldn’t turn up with fresh evidence just when he was getting started. He badly needed a break. He would go to the Watervale scheme and ask around, but first he needed a wee detour into the city centre to the pawnbroker to retrieve his wedding ring. His ex had left him a message – she wanted to try again. Saunders sighed, a waste of time but he’d give it a go.

He’d parked his car in a piece of waste ground about half a mile’s walk from the city centre but it was free and, with his finances, well worth the inconvenience. He walked down to Clyde Street and kept to the path that hugged the river. He heard the comment just as he passed the deserted area around the Jamaica bridge: ‘Hey mate, any spare change?’

Saunders glanced at the man, took in the grubby outstretched hand, the skeletal face. Saunders walked on, not wasting his voice. He had only managed a few paces when the bottle hurled past his head, whistling softly before smashing at his feet. He spun round – the homeless guy had been joined by three mates and they were all walking towards him, their hoods up, faces concealed. Saunders glanced around him. The road was empty – there was nothing for it. ‘Bastards’ he muttered and started running, took a right along the darkened arches running under the bridge, felt his lungs explode with the exertion and cold air, heard his feet slam into the wet tarmacadam, heard the noise of traffic up ahead and took a second to look behind him. They were standing where he’d left them, just doing nothing. Only laughing. ‘Taking the fucking piss,’ Saunders gasped, letting himself bend over, catching his breath, spitting phlegm onto the wet pavement, ‘fuckers were only taking the piss.’