She waited.

‘I think that probably the two boys aren’t involved but in that case we have to eliminate them. Their prints are in the house.’

‘But we can explain that.’

‘Let’s just hold it for the time being. I want you to go make a home visit.’

She knew what was coming even before he said it. A woman’s job.

‘We’re getting someone from Education Personnel out of their beds to get Gilmore’s records. Meantime the good news is that Watervale’s head teacher, Ms Paton, has been located; the bad news is she’s off to a family wedding in Canada first thing in the morning and so she needs to be interviewed tonight.’ He handed her a scrap of paper with an address scrawled on it. ‘The head teacher’s also supplied us with Gilmore’s next of kin – his mother lives in a care home in Milngavie.’

‘Boss?’

‘She’s just coming round from an operation and is still groggy. The doctor says to wait until tomorrow when she can understand things a bit more.’

‘Surely she should be told first?’

‘Not while she can’t take it in. You can take Boyd or Ross with you to interview the head teacher. You know you’re great at getting information.’

She looked at him. ‘Woman’s intuition?’

He smiled. ‘What? I know you have your own way of working,’ he paused, ‘but for now though, let’s just agree to go with mine? Give it a go?’ He held eye contact a fraction too long.

Wheeler tried not to get involved with the smile, stared through the eye contact, telling herself that she was imagining it, that he did trust her to do a good job, that he wasn’t just giving her the soft option. But, a jaunt to the West End to interview the head teacher was taking her out of the loop, so she kept her voice equally smooth. ‘With respect, boss . . . I’d rather stay here and—’

He didn’t bother trying another smile. ‘I like your enthusiasm, Wheeler, but the team are already on to it. They’re good cops; if there’s anything there, they’ll spot it.’

‘And I wouldn’t?’

‘Wheeler, we both know you’re headed for the top – maybe give others a wee chance to shine? Anyway, the briefing’s first thing in the morning, seven a.m. sharp. We’ll share all the information we’ve collected then.’ He paused. ‘And Wheeler?’

She sighed. ‘Boss?’

‘The head’s waiting.’

She gave a terse nod and closed the door quietly behind her.

They drove west on London Road, past the dirt track leading to Gilmore’s house, out past the new housing development, Belvedere Village, houses that replaced the old Belvedere Hospital, past the huge, looming structure that was the Sir Chris Hoy Velodrome, built for the Commonwealth Games. Out through Bridgton Cross and rows of tenement buildings, past the deserted Barras market, a ghost of itself when closed. They drove along the Gallowgate and the Trongate with its steeple inscribed Nemo me impune lacessit (no one provokes me with impunity) and on through the city centre, until they saw the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and the bohemian West End.

A few minutes later they stood in the rain outside Nancy Paton’s home. The wind was up and Wheeler shivered inside her coat. Her knock was loud.

Ross whistled. ‘Big difference between this and Gilmore’s place.’

‘Big difference.’

The red sandstone townhouse stood back from the road in its own neat, ornamental garden. Like Gilmore’s house it had stained-glass windows, but this time they were all intact, an orderly repetition of Mackintosh-type roses arching across each pane. The frames were painted green to match the door, which had a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. A light went on in an upstairs room. They waited.

‘Classical architecture this, not like the station,’ Wheeler muttered, teeth chattering.

‘Aye, the station’s brutal. Bit like this weather.’

‘Dead on, Ross; I’m impressed.’

‘How come?’

‘Know how the station’s all concrete?’

‘Aye, so?’

‘When it’s built with poured concrete like that it’s called Brutalist architecture.’ Wheeler hugged her coat to her. ‘Thought you’d like to discuss some culture, seeing as we’re just standing out here freezing our arses off.’

‘Aye, it’s a comfort right enough, but I’d rather be inside getting a cup of tea and a heat.’

They saw a light go on in the top-floor landing and a few seconds later the hall light was switched on. The door was finally opened by a brittle-looking woman in her late fifties. She was small and scrawny and her cashmere cardigan hung around her thin frame. Her dark eyes were pitted in a face criss-crossed with lines. On both hands blue veins snaked towards her cuffs and ten curved talons were painted the same red as the slash of colour across her mouth. Her voice was the voice of someone with a lifelong love affair with nicotine. ‘Police? A Detective Chief Inspector Stewart called earlier and explained what has happened,’ she rasped. Paton studied their ID cards for a few seconds before finally, reluctantly, standing back. ‘Dreadful business all this. I suppose you’d better come in.’

‘Thanks.’ They followed her into a large reception hall.

‘This news about James, I can hardly believe it. Just awful, but as I explained to your colleague, I don’t really see how I can help.’

She crossed the hall, heels clicking on polished wood; the air was lemon-scented. A huge vase of silk roses dominated a slim glass-and-steel console table. She led them into a sitting room with bow windows offering a view across to the houses opposite. Paton fixed her bony spine on one sofa and beckoned for them to sit on the one opposite. No tea was offered. Wheeler sensed Ross’s disappointment.

‘So, the CID are visiting me at home about one of my staff.’

‘A dead member of staff,’ said Ross.

‘Suppose you tell me what it is you need to know.’

Wheeler edged forward on her seat. ‘We just need some background on Mr Gilmore, a bit of an insight into what he was like.’

‘Well, he usually came in on a Tuesday or a Friday – it depended on his timetable. He stayed an hour or so; I often didn’t see him at all. He typed up his reports on the children he was working with, left them in my tray for me. Usually the reports were fairly accurate.’

‘Was he married?’

Paton paused. ‘Never mentioned it. Only mentioned his mother once.’

‘In a home in Milngavie,’ said Wheeler.

‘Shouldn’t you be out there now?’

‘She’s just coming round from an op. We’ll speak to her first thing in the morning.’ Wheeler paused. ‘What about the children Mr Gilmore was working with; what were they like?’

‘He came in to see George Grey,’ she paused. ‘He’d seen a few of the others in the past, but he’s only working with George now.’

‘Because?’

‘What?’

‘Only working with George because . . .?’

Paton lit up a cigarette and sucked angrily on it, the ridges around her mouth gathering together like a concertina. ‘We wanted James to work longer sessions with George, to look at building up his self-esteem, to try to get his confidence up to a reasonable level.’ She gnawed at the cigarette. ‘There are some concerns about George; he’s become very withdrawn and uncommunicative recently. Become a bit of a shell. Difficult area, as you can appreciate, getting weans to talk.’

‘But there’s been something wrong just lately. Any ideas what it might be?’

‘Could be anything, knowing his background. You know the kind of kids we get at Watervale – their lives are usually very difficult.’

‘Neglect?’ asked Wheeler.

‘Neglect in one form or another. Sometimes it’s economic, sometimes emotional, sometimes unintentional, but it can be deliberate. On a few occasions it’s been worse than just emotional, it can be physical too. We know our kids and George has been acting out of character, becoming tight-lipped and defensive if we ask him what’s wrong. Not like his usual chatty self.’