She nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

‘So Mason was our man all along? He killed Gilmore?’

Wheeler nodded unconvincingly. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Because?’

‘He ended up dead after he had taken Rohypnol. Or at least it was in his system.’

‘Took it? Or was given it?’

She shrugged.

‘So, he murdered Gilmore, then killed himself? Convenient.’

‘Mason didn’t strike me as the suicidal type. He was a career criminal. They’re not usually the reflective kind.’

Wheeler spent the next two hours arranging for the medal to be identified by the only person who would recognise it: Moira Gilmore.

The team eventually reconvened in Stewart’s room.

Stewart updated them. ‘Moira Gilmore has been given a general outline regarding the images we found in her son’s storage unit.’

‘How did she respond, boss?’ Ross asked.

‘Classic denial. She’s flatly denied that it could have been his storage unit.’

‘She still going to sue us, even considering what we found in Clydebank?’

Stewart shrugged.

‘And the medal, boss?’

‘She did however positively identify the medal as belonging to her son.’

Stewart looked at Wheeler. ‘Update on the body in the Clyde, please.’

She nodded. ‘I spoke with Callum. Maurice Mason had a broken nose but it could have happened in the water, hitting against the bank. The only thing Callum could tell me with certainty was that Mason had been drinking and that there were traces of Rohypnol in his system. He was wearing a gold bracelet, Gilmore’s St Christopher and there was some change in his wallet.’

‘Anyone speak to his ex, Lizzie Coughlin?’

Boyd said, ‘I spoke to her. She’s very bitter about the break-up. Says once he got out of the Bar-L, he chucked her and left their house. She didn’t seem too upset to hear that he’d died. Told us he often used roofies.’ Boyd checked his notes. ‘“Mason used uppers and downers all the time; he used anything he could get his hands on.”’

‘Where was she the night he died?’

Boyd glanced at his notes. ‘She was with her pal, Stephanie Roberts. To quote Lizzie, “Me and Steffy got absolutely blootered.”’

‘And Steffy backed her?’

Boyd nodded.

‘Right, so Grim’s on his way. What do we have for the press?’ Stewart looked around the room.

Silence.

Ross summed it up. ‘Unofficially, we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with James Gilmore’s murder? Case closed?’

Stewart pursed his lips. ‘Officially we are still continuing with our investigation and the case remains open until we conclude. But realistically, Ross, that would be a nice neat ending, wouldn’t it? HQ would be delighted with that. We have a suspect who was recently released from jail, who was wearing jewellery that had been taken from a murder victim when he was killed. It’s a result.’ He looked at Wheeler. ‘Anything more from the PM on Mason?’

‘Callum says there’s no way to tell if Mason was pushed or jumped. Or simply fell in.’

Stewart looked around the room. ‘What’s the consensus?’

Ross spoke. ‘I think Mason was framed.’

‘Evidence?’ asked Stewart.

Ross shook his head. ‘None.’

‘So, we spend time and resources trying to clear his name?’ said Boyd sourly. ‘And even more time trying to find out who killed that evil bastard Gilmore?’

‘Or just be glad that both Gilmore and Mason are gone and we have a result.’ Ross looked out of the window. ‘It’s the obvious way forward. Why carry on throwing resources at the case when it’s already been resolved?’

Stewart sighed. ‘Let’s just keep an open mind on it.’

They filed out of his room in silence.

Chapter 68

Saturday evening

Wheeler sat in the empty CID suite, the photographs spread out in front of her. The case was closing, there was nothing new to add and the team had a result. Grim would eventually write an article about James Gilmore and what police had discovered in his Clydebank storage unit. Public perception of the murder would change to outrage. The next article would report that Maurice Mason, a convicted killer who had recently been released from prison, had murdered again. This time his victim was the paedophile. A few days after the murder, Mason had been high on drugs and alcohol when he accidently slipped and fell into the Clyde. What could be neater? A feel-good story for Christmas.

She crossed to the kettle, switched it on, and while she was waiting for it to boil she looked out of the window. Outside, a busker was doing a half-decent rendition of ‘Have Yourself a Very Merry Christmas’. Wheeler stood at the window and watched the lights from the trail of cars going along the A74. She thought of the M74 and the huge landfill that existed between the two roads. She stared at the Glasgow sky and watched as the weather changed and it started to snow.

Behind her the door swung open and she heard snuffling. First through the door was the mutt – its plastic cone had been removed – and behind it Ross came into the room carrying a large carrier bag stuffed with Christmas decorations. ‘These are for you.’ He sat down, tied the dog to his chair and smiled at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, I’m just happy to have some time off. What are you up to over the holidays?’

She paused. Paul Buchan had texted, asking her for dinner – she still hadn’t replied. ‘Not sure, what about you?’

‘Sarah wants to give it another go.’

She looked at his face, saw the tension. ‘And?’

‘I’m not sure. Need some time to think. She lied to me.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, you fancy going out for dinner, celebrate the end of the case?’

‘Not much to celebrate.’

‘Still.’

‘You paying?’

He smiled. ‘Might do. Take it as another bribe towards my promotion.’

‘You’re on. You take Fido back first, okay?’ She bent and patted the dog. It wagged its tail.

Ross nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘Meet you outside Kelvingrove Art Gallery in an hour?’

‘You’re on.’

‘And thanks for these.’ She gestured to the Christmas decorations.

‘No problem. See you in an hour.’

Wheeler watched Ross and the mutt leave before returning to the photographs. She flicked through them for a few minutes, wondering about the children, what had happened to them, where they were now. She looked at their faces, saw a range of emotions: hope, despair, fear. Finally she gathered the photographs together and started to pack them away. Then she stopped. One photograph was left on her desk. She looked at the line of children, all staring at the camera. Some smiling, some looking nervous; one was scowling into the camera. The boy had faced the camera head on, one eye blazing darker than the other. Wheeler checked the back of the photograph. It was labelled Stobwent-Hill Children’s Home. She checked her notes. Gilmore had worked at the home in the eighties. The children would have ranged in age between three and eleven. She studied the photograph again, noted the direct gaze of the boy, the bitterness behind his scowl. The flash of aggression in dark eyes. She reached for the phone. Called Ross. ‘Listen, there’s something about the case, can you come back to the station?’

Acknowledgements

Gratitude and love go out to Jack Oakman, Michael Dacre, Don Storey and Hania Allen.

Big thank you to Jane Conway-Gordon, Krystyna Green and everyone at Constable & Robinson.