Paton tapped her arm. ‘You see that it is. I won’t be there, I’ve got to go to a wedding, but I’ll hear about it. George Grey’s a poor wee soul, you see and remember that.’
They retraced their steps into the lemon-scented hallway.
Paton leaned in to Wheeler. ‘Even when they were in the first year, so, somewhere between eleven and twelve,’ she explained, as if the police might struggle to work it out, ‘sometimes Alec and Rab struggled to do up their own shoelaces. They are not capable of this,’ she paused, ‘unless someone has set it up to frame them. If they have, you find the evil bastards.’
Wheeler paused. ‘Did Mr Gilmore work at any other schools?’
‘Two others, St Austin’s and Cuthbertson High. He used to do a lot more but he was scaling back and had gone part-time. As far as I know he had worked city-wide nearly his whole career so his CV and all his records will be kept at Glasgow City Council, Education Department. We should have copies in the school office. If we haven’t lost them. Our filing system’s shite at the best of times.’
‘Someone from the Education Department is coming out tonight; they’ll send us a printout. Were there any friends or colleagues Mr Gilmore was particularly close to?’
‘Not that I know of – he stayed to have a coffee now and again in the staff room, but didn’t say much. I went weeks without meeting him if I was out and about. I’ve no idea about his home life.’
Wheeler opened the door and turned back, handed the head teacher her card. ‘If you think of anything at all, Ms Paton, will you call it in?’
Paton took the card, glanced at it before slipping it into the pocket of her cardigan. ‘If I think of anything I’ll call.’
They said their goodbyes. Wheeler and Ross were almost at the pavement when she called after them, ‘And if you find out who did this, you’ll call me right away, okay?’
Wheeler turned. ‘Of course.’
The door closed.
Outside the rain hurled itself against them; the temperature had gone well below freezing. As they walked to the car, Wheeler turned to Ross. ‘Well you certainly charmed her.’
‘Bit touchy.’
Wheeler walked ahead of him, suddenly exhausted. And hungry.
He read her mind.
‘I’m bloody starving. Chips?’ Ross looked hopeful. ‘My treat?’
‘The chippy? Is that the best you can do?’
‘God, but you’re hard to please. What do you suggest, taking me home and cooking me dinner?’
‘Aye, in your dreams muppet, but since this is reality, you can buy me a bar snack and a glass of something chilled.’
Chapter 5
James Weir paused outside the office door and spat into the palms of his hands before smoothing his purple-tipped Mohican into shape and knocking sharply, rap rap rap. He waited. Rotated the metal stud in his tongue, felt the new stud in his nipple sting against the heft of his leather jacket and hoped the piercing wouldn’t bleed again; his last shirt had been ruined.
He waited some more.
Finally, ‘Come.’
He opened the door, walked into the room, his biker boots soundless on thick carpet. The smell of fresh coffee hit him: a top-of-the-range stainless-steel Gaggia gurgled in the corner, hot coffee foaming gently into a single cup. An oak desk the size of a boat took up half the room. He fought the urge to gnaw at his nails. Instead he closed his mouth and let his tongue switch the steel stud against the roof of his mouth. Somehow internal flagellation felt comforting.
He held out a trembling hand. ‘Mr Doyle.’
Doyle ignored the hand, let a moment pass before answering, ‘Weirdo, how goes it?’ Watched the six-foot-four man with warrior piercings twitch.
‘Fine, Mr Doyle. Aye great.’
Doyle sighed, ‘Wish I could say the same.’ He crossed to the coffee machine. ‘Need my fix. You’re okay for drinks.’ A statement.
‘Oh aye. Sorted.’
‘I’ve a wee problem; it’s no much but it’s irritating.’
Weirdo waited, his left leg jerking involuntarily.
‘See, Weirdo, I’ve been watching you and you’re making progress. But selling dope to wee university students is child’s play and I thought, mibbe you’re more ambitious, keen to get on in the organisation?’
‘Aye, definitely.’ Sweat formed in his armpits; he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Anything you want, Mr Doyle. Consider it done.’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Opening a drawer, Doyle took out a photograph of the house. The address was scrawled at the bottom of the page. ‘How’s your memory?’
‘Excellent.’
‘Remember this then.’
Weirdo stared at the address, blinked hard, swallowed.
Doyle gave him a second. ‘Nothing much to it. It just needs to be . . .’ he put his hands together and made the sound of an explosion, ‘. . . gone.’
Weirdo nodded.
‘Here,’ Doyle chucked a brass Yale key at him, ‘catch.’
Weirdo grabbed it, ran his finger over the rough of the edge. ‘Consider it done.’
Doyle flicked open a lighter and held it under the photograph, watching it burn before tossing it into a metal wastepaper bin. He turned back to Weirdo, stared hard for a second. ‘You still here?’
Biker boots stumbling silently across thick carpet.
Chapter 6
The Kelvin wine bar was busy, the music just loud enough to complement but not drown out the chat from the mixed clientele. Wheeler was squashed into a booth in the back room, trying to ignore the braying noises from a group of pinstriped London businessmen who’d escaped from their hotel rooms for a night out in the city. Ross brought back the drinks. ‘Overheard one of them ask the barman “Where’s the best place to go flirt with the local fillies?”’
She nearly choked on her drink. ‘Christ, they’d better watch where they go, they’ll be eaten alive. What’d he tell them?’
‘Told them to go visit The Sandy Shack Nite Club.’
‘The shit-shack? Oh God, they’ve got no chance of coming out alive. He’s an evil git, telling them that.’
‘I know, we’ll find their bones picked bare in the morning.’
The food arrived and they settled into munching on olives, patatas bravas, hummus, tortilla and the varied contents of the huge bread basket.
‘Best pub food in the West End,’ said Ross, munching happily.
‘You ever put on weight?’
He shook his head. ‘Never. Metabolism’s too fast.’
‘Freak’. She sipped her wine, sat back in her seat and felt the tension slip from her knotted shoulders. ‘So, what’s your take on the head teacher?’
Ross scooped up an olive. ‘I think she knows her kids pretty well.’
‘And maybe she sees them through rose-coloured specs?’
‘She’s a tough old bird; I don’t have her down for the sentimental kind but she’s convinced none of them are involved in the murder.’
‘So, if we take her word for it then James Gilmore’s death isn’t linked to the school or either Alec Munroe or Rab Wilson.’ Wheeler speared a potato.
‘Yep. Totally coincidental.’
‘Or George Grey for that matter,’ Wheeler said.
‘Or George Grey.’
‘But only as far as she’s concerned and she must have a bias towards the kids – you saw how defensive she was.’
‘Okay then, let’s assume she’s wrong.’ Ross sipped his Coke.
‘You think he was abusing the kids?’
‘Could be – there’s a hell of a precedent in place, a loner guy who works alone with vulnerable kids. What do you think?’
‘I’ll keep an open mind but Nancy Paton seemed pretty sure of him and I don’t take her for someone who wouldn’t be on the lookout for suspicious behaviour. And there are a lot of quiet guys working with kids who are completely trustworthy.’
‘Okay, point taken. So what or who are we looking for?’