Wheeler put the photograph back with the others.
Downstairs, Tommy Cunningham was at the desk sipping coffee and finishing off a chocolate biscuit. He looked up as she approached. His voice was soft when he asked, ‘That you done, then, for the night?’
Wheeler glanced at him. ‘I’m done, TC. I’ve had more than enough of this case for today.’
‘Aye,’ Cunningham agreed, ‘I think we all have.’
‘Goodnight TC.’
‘Night hen.’
She pulled on her coat, shoved a hat over her damp hair and wandered into the rain. She could feel a tension headache start at the base of her neck. Her mobile rang. She glanced at the name. Ross. When she answered there was music in the background. ‘Wondered if you fancied a drink, maybe a chat about the case?’ Ross paused. ‘But maybe you’re shattered. And we’ll get the official debrief from Stewart tomorrow.’
‘It’s okay, I thought you were off to see your girlfriend?’
‘Ex-girlfriend.’
‘Thought you went round there the other night?’
‘It was a relapse for both of us. It’s over. Sure you don’t fancy coming into town for a drink?’
Wheeler felt the rain run down her neck, felt the cold of the wind against her face, felt her headache retreat. ‘Maybe. Depends. Where are you?’
He paused. ‘Bar 99.’
She laughed, ‘Could you have aimed any lower?’
‘There was supposed to be live music.’ He sounded defensive.
‘Is there a band on?’ she groaned. ‘I couldn’t face music tonight.’
‘It was cancelled.’
Bar 99 was right next to the River Clyde. It was a pub to get lost in. Usually crowded, dark and with enough nooks and crannies to talk without fear of being overheard. A place where you could talk about a case without anyone hearing. So ideal in some ways.
‘Tempted?’
‘Okay. Let me drop the car off first.’
She drove home, parked the car and walked through Candleriggs and its ropes of twinkling fairy lights and glowing Christmas decorations. She passed the Bluestone Theatre and turned, kept going until she heard the roar from the River Clyde. A few minutes later and she walked into Bar 99, all low ceilings, dark wood panels and a warm atmosphere. It was busy in the back but there were stools free at the bar. She looked around, saw Ross ensconced at a corner table with two heavyset women. Both women wore thick eyeliner, even thicker foundation and painted smiles. Wheeler nodded to Ross, he rose, and the smiles on the women’s faces turned sour. Wheeler settled at the bar and ordered a Chardonnay.
‘Medium or large?’ asked the barman.
She had to stop herself asking for a bottle. ‘Large, thanks.’ She watched it being set in front of her.
Ross shuffled onto a stool beside her. ‘Out of your depth there, Ross,’ she smiled as she sipped the cold wine.
‘Christ, you’re telling me. I just came in for a quick pint and they pounced.’
‘You’re fresh meat.’ She glanced back; the two women looked like they wanted to kill her. ‘Sure you don’t want to go back, be the meat in their sandwich?’
He shuddered. Nodded to the barman. ‘Pint of heavy please.’
The barman began to pour. ‘No interested in the two lassies back there then, son?’
‘No way.’
‘They’ll be gutted – they must’ve thought it was their lucky night.’
‘Think they’ll get over it,’ said Ross, paying for both his pint and Wheeler’s wine.
‘Think they already have,’ the barman grinned.
They turned to look. A small, thin man in his late sixties wearing a pencil moustache and a freshly pressed tweed suit had perched himself at the table, fitting snugly between the two women.
‘Carnage.’ Wheeler shuddered and turned back to the bar.
The barman gave Ross his change. ‘Och, he’ll die happy, hen. Ye cannae begrudge him that.’ He left them alone and went to the far side of the bar.
They sat in silence for a few minutes; the new development in the case had robbed them of their adrenaline. Both of them knew they would have to find it again.
‘So, what brings you out on a night like this?’ Ross gave her his smarmiest smile.
‘Is that your best chat-up line, Ross?’
‘Would it work?’
‘Tell me, has it ever worked?’
‘True.’ He sipped his pint. The music was loud, Snow Patrol.
She kept her voice low. ‘So what are we left with?’
‘James Gilmore died because he was abusing children. There are hundreds of victims and it could be any one of them. And to be honest, Wheeler, I wouldn’t blame them for killing the bastard.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ she sipped her wine, ‘I think the whole of the station wants to just let this one go.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But that’s not our job.’
He studied the clientele in the pub. Said nothing.
Wheeler continued, ‘We’ve nothing new and eventually Grim will write up what was found at the unit in Clydebank. No one will come forward and there’s no chance of a conviction, is there?’
‘Some folk will believe that it’s a waste of taxpayers’ money to go searching for whoever did this; they’ll believe the killer did us a favour in the long run. And I can’t blame them.’
‘You think Andy Doyle had anything to do with it?’
‘Evidence?’ asked Ross.
She looked at her glass. ‘Nothing, other than they met at the charity do.’
‘Him and a few hundred others; it’s not enough, is it?’
‘No.’
‘I think Doyle maybe knows who did it, but whether or not it was him . . . who knows? We have no motive.’
She sipped her wine. ‘I know. And Lauren Taylor’s death, just horrible. It’s been a fucking awful week.’
‘You got the update on Jason?’
She nodded. ‘They dragged him into the station in the West End. He swore he wasn’t involved. Eventually they let him go. They’re convinced that the evidence points to her getting off her face and accidentally falling from the balcony.’ She paused. ‘Do we know where she got the GHB?’
Ross drained the last of his pint. ‘We’re pretty certain it came via someone in the Tenant clan.’
‘Wee Stevie?’
‘Maybe, if he’s trying to go it alone.’
‘But he doesn’t operate near the university. Could Weirdo have supplied it? So then it would be Doyle that we’d be looking at?’
Ross shook his head. ‘No evidence to point that way.’
Wheeler drained her glass, waited until Ross had ordered again and the fresh drinks sat in front of them before she spoke. ‘Even if he’s not involved, Jason’s a heartless fuck.’
‘You reckon he gave her the stuff at some point in the last week?’
‘Highly possible.’
‘But he’s denying it?’
‘But I already know that he’s a liar.’
‘You sure about the drugs though?’
She sighed.
‘Burden of proof?’
She nodded. ‘And I’m not allowed to investigate because he’s fucking family. He’s involved in some way, I’m sure of it, but he’s going to get away with it. He could be done for supplying.’
The barman switched CDs. Van Morrison sang about a brown-eyed girl. The bar was getting busy and people were crowding in from the street. Ross nudged her. ‘Let’s get a comfortable seat.’
She followed his gaze; the two women and the thin man were disappearing out of the door, leaving their table free. ‘Result,’ the barman smiled as he followed them to the table and collected the empty glasses.
Wheeler’s phone chirruped. A text from her sister: I demand to know what’s going on.
‘I bet you fucking do,’ Wheeler muttered, deleting the text.
Her mobile rang. ‘Let me just take this quickly, Ross.’
Her sister sounded hysterical. ‘I want to know what the problem is, Katherine.’
Wheeler kept her tone the right side of pissed off. ‘There’s a big problem, Jo. Fucking Jason.’
Silence, then, ‘He’s in trouble?’
‘Big trouble.’
‘Tell me.’
Wheeler told her.
Jo’s voice rose. ‘He won’t be involved – how can you even think that?’