‘I said let’s back up a bit. Let’s have a wee think about George. Think mibbe you might want to tell me about whit was happening to him?’

MacIntyre slid further down in his chair, made himself small. ‘Nuthin. Nuthin wis happening tae him. If he says anything else, he’s a lying wee bastard.’

Weirdo bent over him. ‘See I cannae hear any conviction in your voice, Wullie. You’re a shite liar.’ He shook his head. ‘Fuck, have you nae talent at all?’

MacIntyre squeezed himself further into the chair. Weirdo continued, ‘Tell you what, I’ll make it easy for you. James Gilmore, care to tell me about whit was happening?’

MacIntyre shook his head. ‘There’s fuck all tae tell.’ But the tremor in his voice contradicted him.

Weirdo waited; eventually he bent over the cowering man and whispered, ‘We know.’

Silence.

Weirdo repeated himself. ‘We know.’

Silence. MacIntyre began shaking, tried to stop, failed.

Weirdo smiled. ‘See Mr Doyle keeps a wee list of cunts that need annihilated and Gilmore was on it.’

‘How’s that then? How was Gilmore on it?’

Weirdo paused, said nothing. Waited. Saw that MacIntyre still didn’t get it. Shook his head. Went back to his original point. ‘Have a wee think about Gilmore. Then have another wee think about how he met wee George all those years ago.’

MacIntyre flinched as if he had been hit.

Weirdo paused and watched while the penny dropped before he continued, ‘Now guess what?’

MacIntyre stared at him.

‘You guessed it,’ whispered Weirdo, ‘now you’re on Doyle’s list too.’

MacIntyre closed his eyes.

‘So, the thing is Wullie, given that you’re now on the list and given that Mr Doyle has been nice enough to warn you, what are you going to do about it?’

Weirdo left the house, pleased with his behaviour. He heard MacIntyre whimpering and congratulated himself that he hadn’t used his fists. Hadn’t needed to. Mr Doyle was right, Weirdo thought, he was getting better at this; he was ambitious after all. He smoothed his Mohican and clicked the metal stud in his mouth in time with his footsteps. He stopped walking when his mobile rang. ‘Mr Doyle.’

‘You finished with that cunt MacIntyre?’

‘Aye, I’ve just left him.’

‘And he understands?’

‘Aye, he’s shitting himself.’

Weirdo listened to Doyle laugh. ‘Great, let him.’

Weirdo heard Doyle cover the phone, heard a muffled ‘Christ Stella, I told you I’ll be there the morrow night, but then I’m having to work late okay?’ Then he was back on the phone. ‘Stella’s got a part in a panto starting tomorrow night Weirdo, so I want all of this stuff done with; it’s not going to spoil my Christmas, got it?’

‘Aye.’

‘But after the panto, I want you and me to have a wee chin-wag about you moving up in the business. Okay? Stella’s going to be off celebrating with her actor pals, so it’ll just be the two of us.’

‘Great Mr Doyle.’

Doyle paused, lowered his voice. ‘Next wee job for you, Weirdo, I need you to check out a few things, then tomorrow I want you to get up to studentville. Understand?’

‘Sure. Students’ residences up by Maryhill?’

‘You’ll know the area well.’

‘Aye, of course, like the back of my hand.’

‘Pay a wee visit, discreet mind.’ Weirdo listened for the address, then the name of the student. Recognised the name. Waited while Doyle continued, ‘A wee lassie’s dead. GHB. Find out where it came from and if he had anything to do with it.’ The phone went dead. Weirdo turned and walked quickly towards the car park. Outside the rain had turned to sleet. In George’s Square the huge Christmas tree twinkled in the dark and festive songs rang out, wishing everyone peace and happiness, reminding the citizens of Glasgow to ‘Have A Very Merry Christmas!’

The residence Weirdo was looking for was out towards Maryhill. But that was tomorrow. First he had some errands to run in the East End. He nosed the car out into traffic, flicked the heat on full and switched on a Christmas compilation CD. He began belting out ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ followed by ‘White Christmas’. He’d sung along with the other songs while he cruised through the sleet, windscreen wipers beating their own rhythm. The city centre was full of revellers, out partying, laughing and skidding on the sleet-soaked pavements. Happy days.

Chapter 52

The sleet hammered down over the deserted street in the north of the city. Robertson slowed the car to a crawl, stopped and listened to the steady rhythm of the windscreen wipers for a few minutes before finally killing the engine. He twisted his wedding ring from his finger and threw it into the glove compartment. He felt his heartbeat quicken, felt the tremor in his hand begin. He heard the thrum of rain on the roof of the car, the dying sounds of the engine as the heat escaped. He licked his lips, tasted mint toothpaste and bitter mouthwash. He felt adrenaline work its magic as he waited expectantly. His mobile rang and he glanced at the name: Margaret. He switched it off. Within minutes there was movement from the bushes. Robertson watched as the shadow of a young man left the cover of darkness and sauntered towards the car, hips thrust out, hands in pockets. As if he were only on a night stroll. As if this was the perfect weather for walking. He looked as if he was in his late teens, but early twenties was more probable. His jeans were skin-tight, revealing the outline of his legs and his crotch. He wore a tightly zipped leather jacket and dark trainers. His dark hair was mid-length and swept back from a pale face. Robertson waited. The man approached, opened the door, settled himself in the passenger seat. Robertson inhaled the ocean scent of aftershave. He glanced at the young man, took in a strong profile, a large nose, plump lips, a diamond stud earring. Robertson reached forward and started the car.

They drove in silence to the industrial park. It was deserted and huge metal buildings blanketed the space. Aside from his car, the car park was empty. Robertson did what he always did: he leaned across and began. Gently at first, touching, exploring, pressing. Later he pursued his desire more aggressively and felt adrenaline fly through his body until finally, when he was sated, he stopped and leaned back in his seat, sweat saturating his shirt. He pulled up his trousers, ran a sweaty hand through his hair and sat waiting, until his breathing returned to its regular pace.

They drove back in silence, the sweat on Robertson cooling to a deep chill. The young man combed his hair, adjusted his clothes and stared out of the window. Robertson’s mouth tasted sour – he swallowed a few times before he finally slowed the car, opened the window and spat into the sleet. When they came to their earlier meeting place Robertson leaned over, pushed open the door and shoved the young man into the freezing cold night, then threw the notes after him. Before driving off, Robertson reached into the glove compartment and retrieved his wedding ring. Then he switched on his phone. Saw another missed called from his wife. Ignored it.

Chapter 53

In the East End of the city, in the empty CID suite at Carmyle Police Station, Boyd was answering the phone. ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson . . . no Ian’s not here. As far as I know he left a few hours ago. Of course I’ll tell him to give you a bell if he comes in. Bye.’

The strip lighting glared across the room, blinking now and again as if trying to induce a headache. He stood, walked to the window and stared out. In the distance he could see the M8. Cars were crawling through a fresh downpour, their tail lights creating a hazy, meandering path into and out of the city. He thought of the landfill site beside Doyle’s house and wondered why Doyle, with his kind of money, had chosen to live so close to it. He crossed to the kettle and switched it on, glanced across at his desk; on top of the pile of paperwork was a list of some of the items retrieved from Gilmore’s house. Everything that had been removed after the discovery of the body had been analysed for fingerprints, stray hairs, small particles of fibres, anything that would help identify the killer. But apart from an unmatched partial fingerprint and two anonymous callers, they had nothing.