Wheeler sipped her wine. ‘Who else could be in the frame for something this sustained and brutal? It wasn’t just a quick attack – he wasn’t stabbed in the heat of the moment.’
‘Okay. If we look at some of the big players – Tenant, McGregor, Jamieson and Doyle – then I can’t honestly see how he’d even know them. But traditionally, a beating like this would be a gangland signal giving out some kind of a warning. It would fit their MO.’
‘So, which one of the rogues’ gallery uses this way of communicating? What’s your gut instinct?’ Wheeler attacked the olives. ‘McGregor or Tenant? Mason?’
Ross thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. They’re all definitely capable of it but also they’re all complete professionals; they’re career criminals. I think if it was McGregor or Tenant, Gilmore might just quietly have disappeared. They’d get rid of the body and move on. They’re very subtle about their methods. Remember the two nutters who tried to gatecrash the party and muscle in on the local drug scene a few years back?’
‘The newbies? The charming young men from just south of the border who were somewhat overly ambitious and decidedly naive?’
‘Those two, exactly. Pete Thorton and what was the other one called, the one with only half a nose left?’
‘Osborne, Douggie Osborne. Wee fat thing, looked like a slug.’
‘That’s them. Well, they disappeared PDQ didn’t they?’
‘Yep. But they could have just been given a friendly warning and trotted back down south, couldn’t they?’
‘Or they could be part of the hard core underneath some of our newer roads. What do you think’s most probable?’
Wheeler sighed. ‘The city’s full of gangsters or wannabes.’
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he prompted. ‘Where do you think Thorton and Osborne are now?’
‘Gone to sleep somewhere quiet. Subtly spirited away to their resting place by a concerned Glasgow thug playing God.’
‘Dead then?’
‘Dead,’ she repeated, ‘dead and buried under a pile of rubble and concrete.’
‘Agreed.’ Ross clinked his glass to hers. ‘So leaving Gilmore’s battered body behind has nothing to do with subtlety and everything to do with a warning.’
‘Uh huh, I’d say that it was very personal. So, if it was Doyle or Jamieson? Gilmore would have to have known one of them, but how would he? Where would you meet someone like Andy Doyle or Roddy Jamieson? Or Maurice Mason for that matter, and he’s only just been released.’
Ross shrugged and scooped up another olive, ate it and then took a slice of bruschetta and dipped it into the oil. ‘Maybe happy-clappy Robertson or lovesick Boyd will get lucky with their part in the investigation. Or there might be something interesting in Gilmore’s diary. Some event that would link him with one of the big guns. Glasgow’s a small city sometimes.’
‘Or one of Gilmore’s keys might open a Pandora’s box of secrets.’
‘Aye, and if we’re fantasising, there will also be a big long letter written in blood and telling us who did it.’
‘So, let’s back up here – what was that comment . . . the lovesick Boyd?’
‘What?’
She dipped the bread into the last of the hummus and took a large bite before answering, ‘Lovesick. You tell me.’
‘Boyd’s not quite on the ball at the minute.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s in luurve.’
‘And that’s a problem because . . .?’
‘He’s in love but it’s not with his wife. His eight-months-pregnant wife.’
‘Shite.’
‘Aye, exactly. It’s getting complicated. The poor boy got distracted by a big burlesque dancer he met on his mate’s stag do.’
‘A what?’
‘She’s a burlesque dancer at Foaming Frothies.’
Wheeler tried to stop the laugh, but too late it was out. ‘Frothies? Fuck.’
Ross wagged his finger at her. ‘Not the most upmarket place, I grant you, but the boy’s got a wee secret life going on at the minute. In fact . . .’
She held up her hand. ‘I don’t need to know any more, thanks. As long as he concentrates on the job in hand. But I hope he sorts it out with his wife. I met her once; she seemed . . .’
‘Butch?’ suggested Ross. ‘I met her too; she’s ex-navy. He’s a brave man two-timing her.’
‘Focused,’ she corrected him, ‘she seemed a very focused woman, given Boyd’s so shambolic. Let’s hope they work it out, at least for the sake of the child. And anyway,’ she smiled at Ross, ‘you’re not bothered about Boyd being in love because you love Robertson.’
He munched on the last olive. ‘Aye, but that’s unrequited.’
Wheeler drained her glass. ‘Think James Gilmore had a secret life?’
Ross smiled. ‘Doesn’t everyone?’ He held her gaze. ‘Even you?’
Wheeler looked away, ‘What about the letters, if they were even stolen and not just mislaid? You think there was something incriminating in them?’
‘Useless stuff, the head teacher said, old bills or receipts. He could’ve just lost them. If it had been important to him, surely he’d have reported it to us?’
‘What’s on a letter, even just an old bill?’ Wheeler asked.
‘His address, but the boys knew where he lived, said he mentioned it to others at school.’
‘I’m not talking about the two boys. If they’re not in the frame then I’m talking about someone who might have known where Gilmore worked but needed more information. Someone who wanted to find out where he lived. I’m talking about the killer.’
‘Why not just follow him home?’
‘And get caught on CCTV trailing someone who winds up battered to death? Wouldn’t be clever and whatever else the killer is, he’s been clever enough not to leave footprints or much else behind in the house.’
Ross pointed to her glass. ‘Same again?’
She shook her head. ‘We’d better not, Stewart’s scheduled the briefing for seven sharp tomorrow morning.’
‘Pity.’ Ross pulled on his jacket.
‘Yeah, but we’re professionals, remember?’
Ross dropped her outside her flat in the Merchant City. She lived halfway down Brunswick Street and Ross slowed before the heavy wrought-iron gates that led to her home. She flicked the remote and the rusty gates rolled back, sighing and creaking to reveal an inner courtyard of old stone, mossy and damp, and worn copper tubs of evergreens and ivy. Her home. In the heart of the arty area of Candleriggs, not quite as trendy as the West End but close. Champagne bars sat alongside the Italian Centre, the Scottish Youth Theatre HQ and a myriad of designer shops. Alongside these were boarded-up shops, half-demolished buildings and enough swaggering hooligans to prevent the area from tipping too far towards gentrification. She turned to him. ‘See you in the morning smiler,’ then closed the car door and waited until he had reversed the car through the gates before clicking the remote and watching the gates lock.
Inside her flat she kicked off her boots, dumped her coat over the hallstand, the sole piece of furniture in the hallway. She walked through to the lounge: one white sofa, one small glass coffee table, a CD player and a collection of paintings and prints. Her flat had been described as minimalist by one friend, spartan by another, but she liked the austerity of few possessions and felt suffocated by too much furniture or too many belongings. Except art. Wheeler had left the army with everything she owned crammed into one rucksack – that was as much as she needed in her life. She felt the same about relationships: easy, light and temporary suited her best. She crossed to the window and saw below her the streets glistening with rain, darker where it had pooled into shallow puddles. Lights from other windows illuminated the night but the sky seemed to press down on the city. Christmas trees twinkled from numerous windows and reminded her again to buy decorations. She checked her phone. A text from Imogen – apparently the show had been wonderful. Two more texts from her sister, Jo. Jason was still AWOL, could she go and FIND HIM? Wheeler glanced at the clock; it was half past one in the morning. She deleted the texts, went through to the fridge and poured herself a large glass of sparkling water. Flicked through the late-night TV stations. Nothing. Opened the novel she was reading and realised she was too wired to read. Flicked through her collection of Thelonious Monk CDs and chose Monk’s Dream. She sat on the sofa sipping her water. Decided to text Jason, not expecting an answer.