He heard the kettle click, turned from the window and was spooning coffee into a mug when Robertson came through the door, coat damp, hair dishevelled.

Boyd raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘You’re late back. And by the way, your missus is just off the phone. You need to give her a bell.’

Robertson ignored him.

‘You okay?’ Boyd asked, ‘only you look drookit.’

Robertson looked at him. ‘I didn’t expect to find anyone here at this time.’

‘Doing a bit extra, couldn’t sleep.’ Boyd held up his mug of coffee. ‘You want some? Think I might have a packet of biscuits somewhere if that thieving git Ross hasn’t swiped them.’

Robertson shivered. ‘No thanks. Just came in to pick up . . .’ he paused, looked around. His desk was, as ever, an altar to neatness. ‘I thought I’d forgotten something.’

‘Anything important?’ Boyd looked at his colleague’s desk, at the neat rows of pencils, three pens evenly spaced apart, all paperwork aligned. Anal, Ross had called it. Certainly it was organised.

Robertson sighed, ran his hand through wet hair.

Boyd saw that Robertson’s hands were trembling. ‘You okay?’

‘Me?’ asked Robertson. ‘Why wouldn’t I be okay?’

‘Fuck knows, I’m only asking.’ Boyd paused, stared at him. His tie was off and despite his obvious chill he was sweating. ‘You getting the flu?’

Robertson said nothing.

Boyd took his coffee back to his desk and flicked through the paperwork he’d laid out. There was a list of the phone messages that had come in after the police appeal for information had aired. There had been dozens of sightings of ‘suspicious’ people who’d been seen around the area at the time Gilmore had been killed.

He tried again. ‘You seen the number of dodgy sightings that’ve been called in?’

Robertson nodded.

‘Trouble is, it’s not that unusual to see people acting suspiciously in Glasgow. I guess we’re like most cities – we have our fair share of suspicious characters.’

‘We just need the right one,’ Robertson said.

‘True,’ agreed Boyd. ‘What we need is a very particular type of character, a murderer and preferably seen on Sunday night carrying a bloody baseball bat dripping with James Gilmore’s DNA.’

‘Aye right.’

Boyd flicked through the updates. ‘Nothing much of interest here.’ He sipped his coffee and once again read the neatly typed notes taken from the staff at St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. ‘Word for word the notes from the other two schools could have been from Watervale Academy for all the insight they offer into who James Gilmore was.’

Silence. He looked up at Robertson, saw that he had pulled his shirt collar around his throat, held it there with shaking hands, struggled to keep his voice steady. ‘I’m off then.’

‘Did you get what you came in for?’ Boyd nodded to Robertson’s desk.

Robertson looked blank for a second before muttering, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Boyd watched him leave. ‘Okay, see you in the morning.’

But Robertson had gone.

Boyd settled himself and began scrolling down the new list of messages. He was on the third message when he saw one that might actually be helpful.

‘Hello, I saw your appeal about James Gilmore. Me and James . . . we went out for a while. It was years ago though. Not sure it matters much. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s – maybe it’s wasting your time? Anyway, here’s my number. I could tell you a wee bit about him. Not sure it would be anything you didn’t already know. But let me know if you want to talk. Bye-bye.’

The woman’s name was listed as Ms Debbie Morgan and her home address was in Sighthill. She’d supplied both her home telephone number and her mobile. Boyd jotted them down. They could call her but it was always more helpful to meet with an individual; sometimes it was what they didn’t say that was the most useful. Boyd wondered why Gilmore’s mother hadn’t mentioned the woman. Maybe Gilmore had a secret life after all? He flicked to the next message.

DREAMER

The Dreamer sleeps fitfully. He dreams of that night, of the storm. He dreams of leaving the house just as the big man was arriving. Both of them had had the same intention, had wanted the same outcome. Gilmore dead. The Dreamer hadn’t known that; he had felt that he had to do it. The Dreamer’s eyelashes flutter against his face, tears fall and his hand automatically rises to brush them away. He dreams of walking through the graveyard, of the storm soaking the blood from his clothes. Listening to the voice above the storm, being told what to do. Understanding that everything had changed.

Chapter 54

Robertson parked his car in the driveway and as the overhead security light came on he saw a fox disappear through the hedge. He walked to the front door and put his key into the lock, turned it, pushed open the door and went inside. Despite the two painkillers he felt the headache spread across his skull.

He stood in the hall and knew that she was behind him before she spoke.

‘Where have you been?’

‘Out.’

‘I called the station.’

‘I know.’

‘You haven’t been at work, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Where then?’

He stared at the carpet. It was over. ‘Out, driving around, thinking.’

‘About?’

‘Us.’

She waited.

‘We’re over. I’m leaving.’

Saw her look at him; she was hollow-eyed from crying. She started to shake. Robertson left her in the hall and went to the bedroom, took the case out of the cupboard and began packing.

Heard his wife crying, heard her anger rage into words, then sounds. Ignored it; it was white noise in the background of his journey.

A few minutes later and he was in the car again, driving through the empty streets, finally stopping at a cheap hotel. For the time being, it would do. He heard his mobile shrill, checked the number. It was Margaret. He switched it off.

Chapter 55

Friday, 13 December

Morning

It was the constant buzz that unnerved him, like the sound of a million hearts beating as hard and as loudly as his own. George Grey gripped his holdall and walked behind a young couple who’d also been on the overnight coach. They walked into the sea of bodies, their heads down, marching resolutely towards the exit. The young man was adamant. ‘It’s a different scale here altogether. London’s massive compared to Glasgow.’

His companion buttoned her coat up to the neck, shivering. ‘You’re not wrong there. Glasgow’s population is around what? The half million mark?’

‘Wee bit over but that’s the ball park.’ He walked beside her. ‘It’s a village in comparison.’

‘What’s London then?’

‘Seven point five million and still growing.’ The man hoisted his bag over his shoulder. ‘As I said, it’s a different scale.’

They followed the sign for the tube station. George Grey did as he’d been told and turned towards the taxi rank, where he queued for a quarter of an hour before climbing into the back of a black cab. His hand shook as he gave the piece of paper to the driver; the address had been neatly written out. He sat back in the cab and gnawed at the nail on his thumb. The nail was ragged and torn and his fingers were translucent with the cold. Forty-five minutes later they drove through wrought-iron gates and down a long gravel driveway. Huge oak trees lined either side of the drive, casting shadows over an already cold day.

‘This used to be the lunatic asylum.’ The driver pulled up in front of the building and switched off the meter. ‘What’s it now then?’

George Grey blinked, said nothing, thrust the notes into the driver’s hand and stepped out of the taxi and into a wind that whipped his face and tore at his clothes. The icy rain made his face feel raw. He waited until the taxi had driven off before turning towards the house. The place was in darkness save for a single light upstairs. The huge wooden door was closed; a bell on the left rang far into the house. He heard footsteps on a wooden floor, then the door opened. George Grey stood on the step in the rain and blinked at the man.