Wheeler nodded. ‘I know.’ She sipped the last of her wine. Finally she sat back. ‘Feel a bit better. Thank you for this.’

Ross polished off the last of the chips before pointing to her glass. ‘Another?’

She paused, allowed the wine to hit the spot and herself to feel normal. ‘Only if there’s more food coming.’

‘Christ, I’ll be bankrupt. Bloody West End prices.’

‘I’ll pay.’ She dug around in her purse.

‘You’re all right. Just think of it as a bribe for when I go for promotion. Having the acting DI is okay but I’d prefer it to be permanent. You can mentor me.’

She looked at the empty chip bowls in front of her. ‘Christ, if that’s a bribe for me mentoring you, you’re not aiming very high.’

He ignored the comment, went to the bar. Reordered. Glanced back at her, saw that the colour had returned to her face.

It was late when he dropped her home.

Chapter 42

It was two a.m. and the rain battered the pavement and icy drops chilled the bones of anyone caught in its downpour. Jason walked on, not caring in which direction he was headed. Twenty minutes later he found himself in the city centre. It was quiet apart from a few disparate groups of revellers looking for taxis or late-night buses. Deserted stores burned their lights brightly, illuminating gifts and items on Christmas displays. The city had closed down; streetlights cast eerie shadows in back lanes and doorways. As he walked, Jason’s jacket flapped open around him – he was oblivious of the rivulets of rain coursing down his neck, soaking his skin. His shirt was glued to him. His jeans were heavy with water but Jason was floating on a drug-induced high. He heard his footsteps squelch on concrete, marvelled at the sound. He walked down Buchanan Street, past the statue of Donald Dewar and on down to St Enoch Square. He moved quickly but wondered what it would be like to fly. He looked up at buildings and imagined soaring from the rooftops. He giggled to himself, wondered if he should call Lauren. Maybe he shouldn’t have left her? He danced across the road, moving towards the River Clyde, its banks swollen, its waters high. Ahead was the Jamaica Street Bridge, one of many bridges which crossed the river. Underneath, the arches were in complete darkness. The concrete walkway led him past a small group of jumpy addicts huddled around a short, fat dealer. Their transaction almost complete, they turned to stare at Jason. Soon, their shakes would be temporarily stilled and their lumpen shapes would rest on cold concrete or damp doorways. Jason passed some of the homeless of the city who had swaddled themselves in thick cardboard. He strolled on, smiling. He passed a statue standing high on a plinth, the figure’s arms outstretched, informing the city dwellers that it was ‘Better to die on your feet than live forever on your knees.’

Then it hit him.

Somewhere in the recess of his mind he remembered and the memory gathered momentum and rushed past the euphoria and into his consciousness and Jason huddled under the statue, blinking back tears. He couldn’t call her; she had gone. He took out a half bottle of rum and drew on it until he was gasping. Tried to stop the tremble in his hand. Failed. Cursed himself. Cursed Lauren. Mostly though, he cursed Smithy for introducing him to Stevie. Jason wondered what the fuck was going to happen to him if the police found out he’d given Lauren the drugs.

He started on again, walking and reciting curses in time with his footsteps, ignoring the wet, on and on under arches and through alleyways, always sticking to the shadows, only stopping now and then to draw from the bottle. By the time he’d reached Charing Cross and the Mitchell library the bottle was empty. ‘Fuck this.’ He hurled the bottle at the library, listening to the glass shatter as it hit the wall. He swayed. The vast building stood in front of him. The biggest public reference library in Europe was floodlit, the distinctive dome glittering against the black sky. He watched the rain batter in vain against the huge structure. Jason’s eyes filled with tears of self-pity as he whispered, ‘It’s all fucking useless. There’s no point to any of it.’

He moved off, walked down Sauchiehall Street to where it joined Argyle Street. Above him the sky was dark and heavy with rain. He reached the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, the building looming out of the dark; beyond the gallery, the spires of Glasgow University pointed to a stormy heaven. Finally Jason stopped on the Kelvin Bridge and stood, bloodshot eyes watching the River Kelvin surge beneath him. He listened to the noise of the water, imagining an underwater world where the inhabitants of the Kelvin dance an aquatic ballet on their urgent way through the city. Decided he would join them. A glance behind him; there was no one. This weather, no one was out unless they had to be. Overhead the trio of lights from the Victorian lamp cast a sombre glow. He looked up at the university buildings, shrouded in darkness. Wondered why he’d ever gone in the first place. Stared at the silent buildings, willed them to call to him. Heard nothing but the roar of water beneath his feet. Imagined instead that it was the river that was calling to him.

A few minutes and it would be over. Four minutes max if he allowed the water to take him, if he refused to struggle. He closed his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, listened to the rush and swell of the Kelvin, felt himself pulled towards the water. He put his hands on the bridge, breathed in the icy air, reasoned to himself that he was already soaking wet and so was halfway there. He stood on tiptoe and began climbing onto the bridge. Felt it slippery under his wet fingers. Felt his mobile vibrate. He stopped climbing, pulled out his phone, glanced at the name. Kat Wheeler. Auntie Kat had texted him earlier. He ignored it, stuffed the phone back into his jeans pocket and felt his stomach churn, felt the alcohol sour in his gut and then watched as his vomit cascaded into the water. He stuffed his fingers back into his pocket and grabbed his mobile, cursed loudly before hurling it into the air, where it hovered for a second before plunging into the water, barely making a splash. Jason took a deep breath and turned back towards the city centre.

DREAMER

His fingers worried at the sheet. Although asleep, he heard the noises clearly. His memory had stored them and would keep them for ever. As he slept he let the sounds overwhelm him. They began with the whoosh of the bat when it first made contact with James Gilmore, then there was the clumsy noise he made when he fell. After that there were his cries of pain, then the pleading, before, finally, the soft moan as he slipped into unconsciousness. The sound the bat made when it made contact with skin and a different sound altogether when it broke bone. Then the silence, watching Gilmore’s skin break apart and blood leak from the wounds. Hearing Gilmore’s breath leaving his body for the last time and knowing it was over. Then the silence in the room with only the distant sound of lorries on the London Road to shatter it. Lorries which were moving on, leaving the city and its dead behind. The Dreamer sighed in his sleep, his fingers stilled, their worrying over. He breathed deeply and rhythmically and dreamed of standing in a field full of sunshine and flowers.

Chapter 43

Thursday, 12 December

At five a.m. Wheeler sat in her kitchen with a cup of coffee and scrolled down the list of news articles on her phone until she found the one she wanted.

Grim had gone for a discreet heading.