Wheeler shook herself; she was getting maudlin. She crossed to the wall where she had leaned a cork noticeboard. She did this with every case she worked on – it gave her both the space and the opportunity to think away from the station. She closed her eyes, remembering the scene at James Gilmore’s house, remembering exactly where his body had hung, the distance between the body and the doorway, the distance to the window, and also the shape his outline had taken and its relationship with the other objects in the room. She had carefully stored all the images and the facts in her memory and would hold them there until the case was solved and her part in the process finished. Then it would be over to the authorities and the courts. The prosecution and defence lawyers would argue their points and the judge and jury would reach a conclusion on whoever had been charged. Then the bloody images stored in her memory would fade and finally disappear and she would be fresh for the next case.

‘But not yet,’ she reminded herself, speaking aloud in the empty room. ‘Not just yet.’ Covering a large section of the board were her scribbled notes on the case, a map of Glasgow with pins showing the locations they had so far. Gilmore’s house, his mother’s apartment at the Courtyard Retirement Home in Milngavie, Watervale Academy, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. Watervale was obviously in the roughest area; the two other schools were both in the Southside and had a reputation of being ‘good’ schools.

Next, Wheeler looked at Gilmore’s personal details; she’d placed a question mark against his sexuality. If he had been gay, he had decided to keep it quiet. Another question mark was next to the word ‘partner’. There was no indication he’d had either a recent girlfriend or a boyfriend. Or was Ross right and Gilmore was an abuser? A number of children from all three schools had been spoken to, but nothing had ever been reported. Or even hinted at.

Wheeler sipped her wine, looked at her notes, followed the arrows from Doyle to Weirdo, from William MacIntyre to George Grey, who was in contact with Gilmore through Watervale Academy. Wheeler stared at the notes but nothing came from them. Nothing. This was unusual – she usually got some kind of a spark – something triggered her imagination. There was something about this case that was wrong.

‘Right,’ she said out loud, ‘go right back to the beginning.’ Top left in the diagram were Alec and Rab. Two boys, no convictions, would-be petty thieves perhaps, anything more? She studied the line diagrams, the links: they were both at Watervale but there was nothing linking Gilmore’s death and the two boys, other than the school itself. And that would link him to all of the other members of staff, including the head teacher Nancy Paton. Wheeler discounted the staff. They had looked into the list of names. The most they had come up with regarding criminal activity had been a few speeding fines and parking tickets.

There was another list of names bracketed beside the school. Known offenders who’d attended the school in previous years. Not that unusual – most schools had at least a few kids who went off the rails after they left. She counted the names: twenty-three. That wasn’t the impression she had received from either the head teacher, Ms Paton, or the deputy, Margaret Field. According to them, their kids weren’t criminals. Were they just in denial? Or was Matt Barnes right, that kids from such a deprived area made their way outside of society? She checked through the list of their misdemeanours. It was mainly theft and gang fights. One had been done for murder and another two had been done for manslaughter. They were doing time in the Bar-L.

Her mobile sounded; she glanced at it. Another text from her sister.

I’m still worried about Jason – he’s gone AWOL again. I think something’s happened to him.

Wheeler deleted it. She’d looked him up; he was fine. Let them sort it out.

Then a call came through, but Wheeler ignored it, heard it go through to voicemail. Listened – her sister was near hysterical. Wheeler spoke aloud, ‘What the fuck is it with mothers and their sons?’ She deleted the message.

The CD ended. Wheeler went into the kitchen and topped up her wine, brought it back through to the sitting room and flicked on the telly. A documentary was about to start on a group of her favourite Scottish painters. She lifted the remote and turned up the volume.

‘The Scottish Colourists . . . Fergusson . . . Peploe . . . Cadell . . . Hunter . . .’

She settled into the sofa, pushed thoughts of Gilmore’s dead body and the deprivation of George Grey’s life aside. Sipped her wine and let the presenter guide her through the formation of the Colourists.

Chapter 38

The building was a four-storey blonde sandstone close to the university; the top storey had a balcony and she had sunbathed there on the odd day Glasgow’s weather had allowed. Lauren shared the flat with four others.

Lauren scrunched down on the sofa and pointed the remote towards the CD player. Rihanna thundered from the speakers. Jason was sprawled on the floor. ‘And if we drive out tomorrow go easy – it’s my car, remember, Jason. You’re not driving it like you do your old banger.’

He turned towards her, gave her a mock salute. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Right and why are you wearing those gloves inside?’

‘My mum bought them for me; aren’t they great?’ Jason looked at the expensive leather driving gloves. They were a bit over the top, like his mum, but he loved them. They were a symbol of what he would become, a great lawyer.

‘So, where are we going exactly?’

‘Hamilton.’

‘Because?’

‘You said you wanted to hear it.’

‘The echo?’

‘The best echo in Europe.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s true,’ Jason said, ‘there’s this big fuck-off vault, which has the longest-lasting echo of anywhere in the world.’

‘The whole world? All the canyons and—’

He cut her off. ‘Well, maybe not them . . . I mean, it’s got the longest echo of anything man-made.’

‘So, you were lying!’ She laughed, her head back against the sofa, her sparkly hair band lying askew. ‘Why do you want to go there?’

‘So I can sing to you, serenade you.’

‘Seduce me more like,’ she said.

‘Lauren, it’ll be amazing.’

‘The seduction,’ she laughed, ‘or the singing?’

‘From past feedback, I’m guessing both.’

‘That’ll be shining bright.’ She adjusted her hair band, smoothed down her hair. ‘Will we be able to get in?’

‘We’ll break in.’

She looked at him sideways, ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Yeah, we’ll just have a look tomorrow; I think you have to arrange special access.’ He reached for the map which was lying beside him, traced the route they would take, follow the M74, on out through Glasgow to Mount Vernon and its sandstone villas and the huge Greenoakhill Quarry. On through Uddingston and Bothwell and then Hamilton. He fired up the laptop and showed her a photograph of the mausoleum. ‘Looks phallic, don’t you think?’

She peered at it. ‘In your dreams, Jason.’

The dome stood over a hundred feet high. A ghostly reminder of the excess of Hamilton Palace and its long-dead duke.

‘What’s its story?’

‘It was a burial chamber for the tenth Duke of Hamilton. He’d a big thing for Egypt so had himself interred in an Egyptian sarcophagus, and the rest of the rellies stored in a crypt underneath.’

‘Charming.’

‘It was all in vain though – they all had to be moved.’

‘Nightmare. Because?’

‘Flooding. The River Clyde burst its banks.’

‘And so no quirky resting place?’

‘Inside the dome are the whispering walls.’

‘The what?’

‘The whispering walls,’ Jason explained. ‘So, if you and me stand at either end of the walls, but facing away from each other, facing into the wall, we could still have a conversation just by whispering to each other – our voices would be amplified.’