‘Not many men can,’ muttered Boyd.

‘Anything else?’ asked Wheeler.

Debbie paused. ‘Nothing else that I can remember.’

‘Thanks very much for your time.’ Wheeler stood to leave.

‘More coffee?’ suggested Debbie.

‘We’ll let ourselves out. Thanks again.’ Wheeler offered her hand, Debbie shook it then turned to Boyd, winked at him. ‘You mind visit any time you like. I reckon we’re a couple of kindred spirits you and me.’

In the corridor the smell of air freshener seemed to have intensified. ‘Let’s take the stairs.’ Wheeler strode on. ‘You were certainly a hit back there.’

Boyd had the decency to blush. ‘You think Gilmore was gay?’

Wheeler took the steps two at a time. ‘Or maybe he just didn’t like his girlfriend that much.’

‘She’s a bit scary right enough but he still wanted to keep her as a cover. What was he hiding?’

‘I know, it looks quite suspicious.’

‘Or sinister.’ The word hung in the air.

She paused. ‘But there was nothing in his past to suggest . . .’

But Boyd was there before she finished. ‘Kids?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nothing turned up in any reports; there were no accusations. Nothing.’

‘Uh huh.’ They both knew that meant very little.

‘Pete Newton said the killer hated his mother. Sounds like Gilmore wasn’t so keen on his old dear if he never mentioned her in the six months that he was dating Debbie.’

‘I’ve met his old dear and she’s anything but a dear.’

‘Gilmore’s ghost is taking on form.’

Outside the cold hit them. ‘Where to now?’ asked Boyd.

‘Back to the station to carry on our sleuthing work. I’ve got a gut feeling.’

‘Go on.’

‘Something’s changed in this case. The station will be a hive of activity.’

Chapter 57

The CID suite at the station was dead, deserted except for Robertson and some uniformed officers who were frantically typing at computers. Wheeler could tell something had happened but the atmosphere was all wrong.

‘Well?’ She looked at Robertson, took in the faintly creased suit, the tired expression. He looked like he hadn’t slept. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘Clydebank.’

She could tell by the flatness of his tone. ‘And?’

‘Nothing yet, except this.’ He handed her a slip of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘Stewart says to get out there ASAP. We found the address on two of Gilmore’s old parking tickets at the bottom of one of the boxes. Finally called them; it turns out that the key’s for a steel storage unit in Clydebank – Solid Steel Solutions.’

Wheeler noted the expression, the tone. This was the breakthrough they’d been looking for but something was wrong. Robertson’s tone and the fact that the team had all taken off. For a visit to a storage unit. Gilmore had a big house in Glasgow – why did he need a storage unit too? And why was it way out in Clydebank?

She was at the door before she thought to ask, ‘Robertson, anything else happen?’

He nodded. ‘Better ask Ross.’

Minutes later Wheeler and Boyd were driving out of the city. Clydebank was out at West Dunbartonshire, about thirteen miles from Carmyle, and the journey would normally have taken them around half an hour.

‘Shit,’ Wheeler cursed again as they sat in traffic which was backed up on the M74. Sleet was falling fast and visibility was poor. Boyd sighed, switched on the radio, switched it off again. Tried not to appear agitated but failed. Drummed his fingers on his seat belt. Swore under his breath.

The A814 was the same: traffic was backed up and nothing was moving. Wheeler drove cautiously when they were moving, careful not to let the car slide. Eventually after almost an hour they got to their destination and saw that ‘Solid Steel Solutions’ was set in a remote area on the outskirts of Clydebank. The secure storage on offer was rows of steel shipping containers around ten feet by eight feet. Each had its own padlock. Wheeler looked at the entrance; it would usually be accessed by sliding the electronic key tag over the pad which would activate the huge metal gates. Once a car was inside, the gates would automatically close behind it. Right now the gates were permanently set on open to accommodate the police cars. She glanced around and guessed from the lack of an on-site office that the site was not usually manned, but she could see four personnel in suits standing in the sleet talking to Stewart.

As Wheeler and Boyd approached, Stewart broke off to acknowledge her and point to a storage unit at the end of the row. He needn’t have bothered – it was crawling with CID and uniform.

Ross came out of the unit as she approached. Shook his head, walked on.

Stewart finished with the men in suits and stood beside her. He touched her elbow.

She looked at him. ‘Boss?’

‘A quick look, Wheeler,’ he instructed her. ‘Don’t linger.’

Inside, her footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. There was metal shelving running the length of the unit. On the shelves in neat, ordered packs, were thousands of photographs and pictures. James Gilmore had been methodical in his storage. There were bundles of images, scribbled locations. She glanced at one of the older packages: Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home, Glasgow. As far as she knew the home no longer existed – it was long gone, its child residents scattered across the city. Other labels simply described the images as Downloads 2008–2009, 2009–2010, 2010–2011. On the shelves there were thousands of pictures, some developed, others downloaded. All dated, sorted chronologically, the most recent at the front. All revolting. Gilmore had been a paedophile for decades. He was in some of the photographs – she guessed that he was the man in the mask, holding the chains. Wheeler glanced at one, saw the bleakness in the young boy’s eyes, the leather collar tethered around his thin neck, and felt her stomach heave, her mouth fill with bile, her forehead break out in a cold sweat. She turned away, headed for the exit and was grateful when she stood outside taking in gulps of cold sleet. She tightened both hands into fists. Walked over to Stewart, who was talking to a group of officers. Her throat was sore and she wanted to throw up. ‘Boss?’

‘Right, get this lot dusted for prints, bagged and tagged and shipped out.’ Stewart’s face was grey, his knuckles white as he spoke to the officers. He looked at her. ‘Back to the station. We can’t do any more here and I think you’ve seen enough.’

She had.

Boyd was staying put, so she drove back, insisted on it. Said that she needed to concentrate. Ross sat beside her. She waited until they were out of Clydebank before she spoke. ‘You were right.’

‘Bastard.’ Ross stared out at the River Clyde. ‘Fucking bastard.’

‘Robertson said there was something else.’

‘Yeah, I finally got a reference for Arthur Wright. And a phone trace for the two calls about Gilmore.’

‘The ones about Gilmore being linked to him and not being a good guy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And?’

‘They were from a payphone in the Watervale scheme. Near the youth club. Someone had done their homework. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to the polis but they found out about Gilmore and passed the info along.’

‘Took us long enough to find it though.’

‘It was a long shot. Arthur Wright had been deported from the US, went back to his original name, then an alias. It was cross-referenced, but it took forever to trace.’

‘And?’ her voice trailed off.

‘Same as back there.’ He jabbed his thumb back the way they’d come.

She drove to the station, parked, and they were in the CID suite, taking off their damp jackets, when Stewart arrived. ‘Meeting in my room in ten.’

She nodded but knew that the atmosphere in the suite had lost its charge. James Gilmore had been murdered but now that he had gone from victim to perpetrator, the energy for a conviction had dissipated.