He straightened himself, took another look – they were still there, watching, smirking. One gave him the finger. Useless jakies. Saunders felt the bile fill his stomach, felt every fear and frustration come back to him. Decided to slip back. Kept to the shadows, heart beating, put his hand in his right pocket and felt the rubber flex. He took a left and doubled back; now he was behind them. They stood huddled, numb with the rain, their sport over for now. Surprise always worked. He sprang at them, whipped out the flex and started on the backs of their knees, thrashing and whipping until they’d folded, screaming in pain, blood pouring from their wounds.

‘Jakey bastards.’ Saunders felt the laugh rise in his throat, slapped the flex into a face, saw blood spurt. Gone was the veneer of professional respectability he’d constructed for his clients; now he was back to Ivan Saunders, the boy from Barlanark, who as a youth was a local gang leader. All that was behind him now but he still missed the rush of adrenaline.

‘Ivan Saunders isnae a coward,’ he spat. He waited for a second but knew that they weren’t getting up and so sprinted back towards his car, heart beating, adrenaline surging through him. He unlocked the door, slid in and started the engine, decided not to go back the way he’d come and nosed the car out into the traffic, turning left. He felt that he was flying. The visit to the pawn shop to retrieve his wedding ring was completely forgotten.

He drove straight to the Watervale school and parked the car on the main road. As he locked it he felt eyes on him, spun around, but there was nothing. The road led into the academy and he followed it, waiting for the inevitable gangs to secrete themselves from the buildings. But no one appeared, leaving him with the sensation of being watched. He walked to the youth centre; it was locked. Rab Wilson walked by, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his fleece.

‘Hey son,’ Saunders called, ‘mon over here, I need a wee chat.’

Rab stood watching him.

‘It’s okay son, I just want a wee bit of info. You from round here?’

Rab nodded.

‘Got a name?’

‘Aye.’

Saunders waited.

Rab let him wait.

Saunders began talking. They stood in the rain and Saunders briefed Rab, told him how some poor old woman was in tears because her only son had been murdered. Asked Rab if he’d heard anything about it. Anything at all.

Rab shook his head, ‘Nothin’. Only that it happened. You polis?’

‘Private.’

‘How come?’

‘Gilmore’s wee mammy doesn’t trust the polis to find out who killed her son.’

‘That right?’

Saunders nodded. ‘See if you’re from around here, maybe you can tell me who would know something? Who’s part of the community, who’d have heard a wee whisper?’

Rab stared at the wet pavement. Said nothing.

‘You not worried that there’s a murderer around here son?’

Rab blinked. ‘Shit happens.’

‘What about the youth club – who runs it?’

‘Malcolm Miller.’

‘He around?’

‘Mibbe. Later, when it opens.’

Saunders watched the boy walk off. He knew the boy was lying. Knew that the body had been discovered by two youths – that much his contact at the station had given him – but still he had to be careful. He couldn’t be seen to be treading on polis turf, compromising their investigation as they liked to remind him. Still, he would check out the shops in the area, find out who knew Gilmore, get some insight into who the man was. Then later he’d come back and speak with Malcolm Miller.

Saunders knew after an hour of chatting to the locals that the word was out. They knew someone was looking for information. And would pay for it.

He just didn’t expect it to be him.

He was two-thirds of the way down the road, going back towards his car to eat a greasy sausage roll, when they appeared, three youths, hoods up, scarves around their faces. Same old, same old he thought. Except these weren’t tired old jakies. He stopped, waited for them to approach. At the same time he felt more than saw a couple of others move in behind him, cutting off his escape. He waited, his fingers on the flex. Tried to summon adrenaline. Failed. Balled the sausage roll into its wrapper and tossed it. Took a step forward and heard a car screech to a halt behind him.

Saunders turned and was felled by the man who was behind him, felt a solid boot crunch into his mouth, felt teeth loosen, closed his eyes as blood began to pour onto the street. Tried to grasp the flex but someone was standing on his hand, biker boot crushing bone. Saunders looked up through the wet and blood and saw a halo surrounding the man. He remembered his childhood, raised as a Catholic. The halo shone as it had in the picture books at his school, only this time it wasn’t gold, it was purple. Saunders closed his eyes and let himself drift into unconsciousness.

Across the city, Doyle took the call. ‘Our friend’s not playing nice today? Okay Weirdo. And Weirdo?’ Doyle paused. ‘Make sure Rab stays in touch with you via Manky.’

‘Will do, Mr Doyle.’

‘I spoke to Smithy. If he pulls any more of his stunts, I want to know.’

‘Okay, Mr Doyle. Manky was just saying he got a visit from the filth.’

‘And?’

‘He told them nothing.’

‘Tell him to keep it that way.’ Doyle put down the phone.

Chapter 32

The view out towards the Campsies was beautiful, the rain creating a fine mist across the countryside, like a watercolour painting, but it was lost on her. Had she looked up she would have seen the hills in the distance, a dark outline against stormy sky. An artist’s dream scene. Instead, Margaret Robertson sat in her parked car and worried at the tissue in her hands, shredding and tearing and reducing it to dust. She listened to the thrum of rain on the car roof and the rhythm of the windscreen wipers for a few minutes before switching on the radio. She flicked through different channels, but there were limited options given the poor reception so she decided not to bother and switched it off again. Took another tissue out of her handbag and began the shredding process again. She was parked in front of the Gospel Hall, blinking at the phrase in front of her.

THE LORD REWARDS EVERYONE ACCORDING TO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE

The two-foot-high letters stood beneath the huge wooden cross that dominated the front of the low, modern building. Rain lashed against glass and concrete, and the railings that surrounded the hall dripped with water. The hall stood in its own grounds at the foot of the Campsie hills, its gates firmly locked against both the elements and non-believers.

The sky had darkened to black and a storm hung in the air by the time the car pulled in behind her. Elder Morrison was behind the wheel. He was in his early seventies; silver hair hung at angles around a pinched face, a hooked nose and thin, tight lips.

Inside, the hall was cold, but she wrapped her coat around her and sat, waiting for him to join her.

‘So, Mrs Robertson, you needed to see me?’ His voice was cold, his words measuring out gravitas with every syllable.

She looked at his face, searching for kindness but instead found righteousness. Her hands kneaded themselves red raw. ‘I need to talk to someone about my husband, Ian.’

‘Yes, I know, the policeman. He’s a good man. I know he works with our Outreach Team.’

‘Yes, he does, but that’s not why I’m here . . . I mean he . . . we . . . I’m not sure how to begin.’

‘The beginning is always a good place.’ His eyes the eyes of a hawk.

So she told him. Starting with their marriage, how she had hoped for a family, how it had never happened.

‘Perhaps it is the stresses of modern life. Your husband has a very demanding and stressful job. Be patient. Don’t become a nag or a shrew. Never become a burden to him.’