‘This much blood, Callum, tell me there’s a decent set of footprints?’ Wheeler sounded hopeful.

‘Not your lucky day I’m afraid; there are no crisp outlines. Looks like the killer bound his or her feet with something to distort their prints. Towels maybe? The splatter’s been soaked up in places. The footprints are quite indistinct. Except for those excellent specimens.’ He pointed to two sets of fresh, clear prints a short way from the body. ‘But apparently they belong to the two boys who discovered the body.’

Wheeler moved carefully towards the corpse. Close up she could see the dead man’s face was a mass of pulp, the skin broken and raw. ‘He certainly annoyed somebody.’

The pathologist nodded. ‘He did that. He was already dead by the time the killer hung him up. A lot of extra effort – a dead weight like this would take a considerable amount of strength. Either that or the killer was bloody angry; the adrenaline in anger can give us almost inhuman strength.’

‘Somebody wanted to make a point.’ Ross glanced at the body and away again. ‘A warning maybe?’

Callum nodded. ‘Could be.’

‘What ETD do you have?’ Wheeler could smell stale blood and cupped her hand around her mouth before coughing discreetly into it.

‘Well, decomposition’s beginning and rigor’s advanced, so I’d say we’re talking about some time last night. Can’t be more specific at this time; I’ll know more when I get him back to the mortuary.’

‘He hardly looks human,’ she sighed. ‘So we’ve got his name and where he worked. Bit strange though, an educational psychologist ending up like this.’

‘Usually more gang-related,’ Ross said, ‘this kind of thing.’

Wheeler peered at the body. Dark eyes bulged back at her. ‘You think he got on the wrong side of one of the Glasgow families?’

Ross held out his hand, counting off each finger. ‘If it was drugs, the McGregor crew, or the Tenant clan, both are at loggerheads. Or one of the independents? Doyle or Jamieson? Any one of them could do this in a heartbeat.’

‘An educational psychologist though?’ Wheeler pursed her lips. ‘Are that lot not a bit out of his league?’

‘You thinking mistaken identity, somebody got the wrong guy?’ asked Ross.

She pointed to the corpse. ‘I think this was more personal. This amount of blood, they took their time.’ She looked around the room; it had morphed from someone’s home into a crime scene – everything was being photographed, bagged and tagged. She tried to see beyond the gore, tried to get some idea of who James Gilmore was, hoping that his home would give up some of its secrets. But there wasn’t much homeliness to the room; it appeared that, even before Gilmore had been murdered, the place had been slowly dying. The sofa was ancient, torn cushions exposing the inner foam padding. A threadbare carpet, filthy curtains. Everything old and worn and neglected. She turned away. ‘Whatever they’re paying educational psychologists these days clearly isn’t enough.’ She turned to Callum. ‘I don’t suppose they left the weapon behind?’

‘Nothing found in here I’m afraid Katherine – maybe they’ll find it out in the garden somewhere.’

‘If you had to guess . . .?’

‘If I had to guess, and I don’t like guessing, then I’d say the weapon was some sort of a bat, possibly baseball, and most certainly wooden, considering the presence of these splinters.’ He tweezered a tiny shard of wood from a pool of blood and held it up. ‘Could be made from ash, that’s the most usual, or if our killer went upmarket for his bat, it could be made from maple.’

Wheeler shook her head. ‘With so many baseball bats in circulation in the city, is it not about time we had a few actual teams going?’

‘I’m done here.’ Callum stood with a groan. ‘Want a lift back in Jessica? I don’t mind detouring to the station. For you, Katherine, anything.’

Wheeler tutted. ‘You still naming your cars, Callum? Is that not a wee bit immature?’

‘I name all of my vehicles.’

‘Thought you’d have grown out of it by now. Thanks, but I’ll go back with Ross.’

‘Suit yourself, but I’ll keep her on the road.’

Ross groaned. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Ignore him,’ said Wheeler, ‘he’s feeling tired and emotional. We’ll be at the PM tomorrow. What time?’

‘I’ll let you know – we’re backed up just now, but I’ll try to give him priority. Although,’ he paused, ‘I think it’s obvious . . .’

She cut him off, ‘I know, I know, it’s obvious what happened.’

‘Indeed it is. A man was battered to death. All you need to do is find out the “who” and the “why”.’

She chewed her bottom lip as she followed him into the hall. Her phone bleeped again. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen – her sister again. She flicked it off as she passed three young SOCOs. Overheard one whisper to Ross, ‘Haddy, get it? Short for haddock.’

Behind her Ross tutted, ‘Aye, I get it. Fish tea. He’s been battered.’

At least their laughter was subdued.

Outside, Callum pointed at the house. ‘You see the extra-wide doorway?’

She saw it.

‘This place was the old slaughterhouse and that’s where they herded the cattle in for slaughter. Of course it’s been renovated since then and that stained glass put in. It’s totally out of character with the building. Not that there’s much left of anything really – it’s all a bit of a wreck. But the hook the body was found hanging on is an original feature and would have been used to tether the animals before they were killed.’ He smiled at her. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that lift, Katherine?’

‘Sure.’ She watched Callum lumber towards his car, felt herself breathe in the cold damp air and was grateful to be out of the house, away from the atmosphere of evil. She inhaled again, deeper this time, bringing the freezing air low into her lungs, enjoying the shock it gave her system. She watched the crime-scene photographer come out of the house and continue taking pictures before she half turned back to the house and opened her mouth to yell, but he was already striding towards her, long legs covering the ground easily. ‘No need to shout,’ Ross said, ‘I’m here already. We’re going to interview the two boys. Right?’

She smiled at him. ‘Bingo.’

Chapter 3

Ross turned the car into the station car park and braked sharply. ‘Christ, I nearly killed the wee shite’.

The wee shite in question, Graham Reaper, was chief reporter with the Glasgow Evening Chronicle and he flashed a crooked smile before signalling to his photographer to get a picture of the cops. He already had the headline in mind: Gruesome Find in Glasgow’s East End! Murder Inquiry Begins.

‘You ever wonder how Grim gets here so fast?’ Ross parked the car, pausing to smooth down his hair before releasing his seat belt.

‘Aye, he’s being tipped off and if Stewart ever finds out who the hell’s doing it, they’ll be fucked.’ She glanced at him. ‘You always so worried about your appearance?’

‘Well, if I’m going to be in the paper . . . there’s no harm in looking my best. You never know who’ll see it.’

‘You single again?’

‘I know it’s hard to believe.’

‘What happened to the last girlfriend – what was her name?’

‘Sarah.’

‘Aye, her. What happened?’

‘The usual.’

‘The usual in that she woke up one day and realised that you’re a numpty?’

Ross tried for a hurt look. ‘The usual in that she started blethering on about rings, future plans, kids. She even mentioned coming off the pill. That sort of shite.’ He mimed putting two fingers down his throat and gagging.

‘You not want a wee “mini-you”? Thought that would be right up your street.’

‘No way. I’m too young. In my prime.’ He threw open the door, blinked back the flash from the camera. He fixed a ‘no comment’ smile to his face and made for the door.