To Pay the Ferryman E-Book

Pat Black

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: The D.I. Lomond Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 607

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A cold case in the city of the dead. D.I. Lomond is a devoted family man. A good detective. When the body of a young woman involved in the worlds of art and adult streaming is found in the River Clyde, Lomond believes there may be echoes of a cold case from the start of his career: an unsolved death on a rural Scottish estate in the 1990s. Then, a Swedish feminist activist, who also has a connection to Lomond's past, arrives in the city to protest against the failure of the police to find the killer. The victims all seem to be drawn from the world of art and business. Is the cold case the answer, or just part of the key, and could the killer be about to get dangerously close to Lomond and his family?

Leseprobe

A note on the author

Pat Black lives in Yorkshire with his wife and children. He will always belong to Glasgow.

First published in 2025 by Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

1

Copyright © Paul McGurk, 2025

The right of Paul McGurk to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978 1 84697 679 7

eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 717 8

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset by 3b Typesetting, Edinburgh

For Jamie

Aylie

1

There are rivers in all of us, Detective Inspector Lomond reflected. One day they run dry.

He swirled the coffee in the polystyrene cup, watching his reflection dance. It was a notoriously horrible blend, and always came as a slap in the face. Exactly what Lomond needed after the post-mortem.

He waited for Chick Minchin in the usual room, a clean place decorated with fresh flowers that reminded him of similar spaces in hospitals where people were made to wait for bad news. He avoided the chairs and leaned against the far wall underneath a painting of the Bridge of Orchy. His posture had barely changed in the past six or seven minutes. For unusually long periods of time, he hardly blinked. Anyone who had been watching him and did not know him would have thought this behaviour odd, and worth noting.

He knew the name of the person he’d just seen opened by the pathologist, had looked at the digital faces she presented in life, just before he had seen the final reality. The inspector was well used to the process by now. He had learned a long time ago not to compartmentalise, but to go with the anger and disgust, the repulsion, to lean into it; to let its hard edges and ugly textures sharpen his focus. The trick was never to show it. In the immediate aftermath of the grim clinical business, it took a little time for Lomond to come back to a normal state, and he liked to do this alone.

The door opened, and the pathologist appeared. Minchin was a schnauzer of a man with mostly grey hair who had suited his moustache but had bowed to decades of good-natured peer pressure by shaving it off within the past year. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and fastened by silver garter clips, and he crossed the floor fast, stopping close enough to butt noses with Lomond, if he wished. This prize-fighter’s approach could be unsettling if you didn’t know Minchin, and sometimes even if you did.

The pathologist folded his arms and sniffed at Lomond’s coffee cup. ‘That’s not the good stuff you’re drinking. That’s the machine rubbish, isn’t it? They swapped the machine six months ago. It was bad before; it’s a war crime now. Not fit for human consumption. You should have come to me for the good stuff, Lomie. Wee place round the corner. My treat.’

‘Bad coffee can still wake you up.’ Lomond sipped at his drink and shivered. ‘At least it’s hot.’

‘Weather still crap?’ Minchin squinted through the blinds. ‘Silly question?’

‘Silly question.’

‘You’d suit a hat, you know. It’d complete the picture. And it’d keep your ears dry.’ Minchin grinned.

‘What’s your news, Chick?’

‘Cause of death was the wound to the throat. Killer’s right-handed. Probably grabbed her by the chin, pulled it back. Happened fast. Considering what he did and how he did it, it was quite a clean job. Whoof.’ Minchin whipped a hand across his own throat. ‘Right across the carotid, through to the other side. Didn’t sever the windpipe. Instant loss of blood pressure. But here’s the thing – she wasn’t dead when she went in the water. Reflex action.’ The pathologist drew in a quick breath. ‘Took water into her lungs, seconds after the killing stroke. Alveoli were burst, but not in a pattern that indicates drowning. Throat wound killed her.’

‘So she had her throat cut, then went in the river straight away. How long was she there?’

‘I’d say thirty-six hours.’

‘Saturday night.’ Lomond nodded. ‘Any idea how far she might have drifted?’

‘It’s hard to say, Lomie.’

‘Sexual assault?’

Minchin bit the side of his mouth. ‘No sign of it that I noticed. Wouldn’t commit to an answer, though. We’ll wait and see what the tests show. No bruising elsewhere, or defensive wounds.’

‘Could we have lost any evidence with the body being in the water all that time?’

‘It’s possible, but she wasn’t in there long enough, really. The body was in good condition, considering.’

‘Seems like she was executed.’

Minchin was not an altogether serious man, and certainly not a quiet man, but he could be coy when it came to giving opinions about anything other than the science and the hard facts – something he could sign off on. Not on this occasion, though.

‘You’ve got a daftie out there, Lomie. It’s the cleanliness of it. “Ritualised” is the word I probably shouldn’t use. Where’d they find her?’

‘Runner spotted her from the riverbank. Saw the hair first. Wasn’t sure what he was looking at, to begin with.’

Minchin grunted.

Lomond’s small dark eyes were restless. ‘You remember the Daisy Lawlor case? The lady of the lake, the papers called it. Hitchhiker. Went from festival to festival. Bit of a hippie. This was the mid-nineties.’

Minchin frowned. ‘Rings a bell. I was in Fife at the time, mind. Unsolved, wasn’t it?’

‘I worked on that case. Similar. Very similar. Naked girl, left in water. Had her throat cut. Not as broad or as vicious a stroke as this. But she had a few other injuries. Two in the back. One in the abdomen. Throat was cut, probably post-mortem. They weren’t sure if the other cuts were made pre- or post-mortem. Water was used for disposal.’

‘I’ll have a look at the files, Lomie.’ Suddenly, the pathologist grinned.

‘What’s so funny?’

Minchin shook his head. ‘Early nineties, yeah?’

‘Mid-nineties,’ Lomond said, pointedly.

‘Must have been when you were Baby Officer Lomie, Strathclyde’s finest. In uniform.’

‘And?’

Minchin snorted. ‘I just can’t picture you in uniform.’

2

Detective Sergeant Slater sat at the back of the briefing room, with a notebook open on his lap for form’s sake.

He had chosen to sit beside Detective Sergeant Smythe. She was in a relaxed pose, her hands folded in her lap, one leg crossed over the other. Her notepad and pen lay on the seat beside her.

‘When’d you get the call?’ Slater asked her.

‘Same time as you, I guess.’

‘I’d actually gone to the gym, for once. Psyched myself up and everything. Gave myself a target. Then, wallop, call came in.’

Smythe said, ‘Never a good time, is there?’

‘Say that again. Aw, look . . . his royal highness must be on the team as well.’ Slater nodded to the left-hand row of seats, where Myles Tait sat with two or three other officers. Slater often remarked that Tait had the look of a tailor’s dummy brought to life, but this was to ignore a good head of hair and fine, chiselled features. He was, Slater supposed, a guy whose gym time never got interrupted. Tait locked eyes with Slater for a second or two; neither man acknowledged the other openly. Tait turned back to his colleagues and made a remark, and they all laughed aloud.

‘Sounds like fun over there,’ Slater said. ‘Comedy night in here, eh?’

‘Try to grow up a bit,’ Smythe said sharply.

Slater bristled but said nothing. There was some movement at the head of the lectern; a door opened, and voices carried through. The briefing room display screen flickered into its pale blue half-life while a cursor danced in the corner.

‘You’d never guess it,’ Slater remarked, ‘but Lomie doesn’t like doing these. He says it’s like pulling teeth.’

‘That is a surprise,’ Smythe said. ‘He comes across well enough.’

‘Suppose that’s the trick.’

Lomond carried a ring-binder which he put down on the lectern. He had taken off his overcoat, and Slater noted with some surprise that his boss had lost a bit of weight.

‘Afternoon, everyone,’ Lomond said, gazing out across the officers assembled in their seats. The presentation screen now showed a tall, slim, smiling girl with long blonde hair. She was on a night out, grinning into the camera. The face of the friend who had her arm around her shoulders was cropped out.

‘Aylie Colquhoun,’ Lomond said, ‘twenty years old. From Castlemilk, former student at Strathclyde Uni. History and politics. Had some interest in joining the Scottish Greens. Dropped out last year before her second-year exams in May. Lived in Garnethill, shared flat, short-term lease. Had done some modelling work; we don’t know where she was working now. Found near Easton Wharf, but most likely entered the water somewhere east of there. Her throat was cut. According to Minchin’s report, she was placed in the water immediately after she was killed, sometime after eight p.m. on Saturday night. She might have drifted for miles.

‘First, we’ll check all available CCTV around bridges and known entry points where a car might have easily accessed the river without being seen. From there, we’ll liaise with the media and find out if anyone saw anything suspicious.’

Smythe raised her hand. ‘Sir, did she enter the water naked?’

‘Looks like it. Should go without saying that we won’t be giving out any of these details to the press, on or off the record, but past experience tells me I should say it anyway. Twenty-year-old girl found dead in the water, suspicious circumstances, nothing else for now.’

Once the briefing was over, Slater joined Lomond in his office. ‘We out and about now, boss?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely. I want to talk to her mother first.’

Slater looked surprised. ‘Thought we’d have given her the news already?’

‘Aylie was twenty – she can’t be long out of the family house. Mother is in Castlemilk. No other relatives. I want to start at the beginning, find out what she was doing with herself.’

DS Smythe joined them. She had radically altered her fair hair in the past week – it was shorter now, though not brutally so. Slater didn’t realise she’d been summoned until she said, ‘Sir?’

‘Ah, Cara,’ Lomond said. ‘Thanks for coming. I’ll need you to check something separate for me. It might be to do with the case, but probably not: just something we have to check out. I want to make sure we get it right.’

If she was taken aback, she didn’t show it. ‘Understood, sir.’

‘I’ll be in touch within the hour.’

She left the office, and Slater said, ‘I thought Smythe was tagging along with us, gaffer?’

‘She will be, but not today.’

‘Side mission, eh? Secret squirrel stuff.’ Slater smiled. ‘Should I feel threatened?’

‘Ach, you can if you want.’

‘I’ve every right to be, I suppose. She is brilliant.’

‘Yep.’ Lomond nodded readily. ‘And normally I’d want her along for a death knock. I guess I’ll have to make do with you.’

‘Now I feel threatened and slighted, gaffer.’

‘C’mon. My car. Try not to crack any jokes. Seriously.’

*

Irene Colquhoun lived in an eight-in-a-block with verandas at the front in Castlemilk. She was two floors up, in a two-bedroom flat with stark white lace curtains in the window.

While Lomond and Slater waited for a reply at the security door, a man appeared at an identical entrance in an identical block right across the road. The door slammed back, and the man – stout, thickly muscled, anywhere between twenty-five and forty, paunchy and bald – glowered at them.

‘What you looking at?’ Slater growled.

‘What?’ It was the instant reaction of the guard dog to the postman. The man started across the road, clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘What did you just say, mate?’

Utterly unfazed, Slater strode towards him with his warrant card out. ‘Yeah, hello. My name is Police Scotland. What’s your name? Can we be friends forever?’

The man withdrew, sullen and muttering, his fists still clenched. He made a great show of banging the security door behind him; any neighbours who were not invested in Lomond and Slater’s presence by this point had certainly taken a stake now. Some brazenly appeared at their windows, some lurked like wraiths behind blinds and curtains.

‘Idiot,’ Slater said, biting the side of his mouth. ‘I’m going to find out exactly who that was and . . . I tell you . . . file a wee note to myself!’

‘Try not to get into a scrap, Malcolm,’ Lomond drawled, a tad reproachfully. ‘Remember we’ve got to drive out of here after this.’

‘Animal kingdom, isn’t it? Always the same in these places. Fort Apache. They don’t know you, so they want to kill you.’

‘That’s a bit unfair. I grew up on a housing scheme.’

‘Would that fact make us more dead or less dead?’

A voice came out of the intercom, startling them both. Lomond had been about to press the button again. ‘Hello?’

‘Is that Mrs Colquhoun?’ Lomond asked. ‘We’re with the police. I spoke to you on the phone earlier.’

‘Oh, mammy, daddy,’ she said. Then the buzzer sounded, letting them into the building. ‘Mammy, daddy. Come on up.’

*

Mammy, daddy. That was all she said at first, over and over. Every fresh utterance jarred the two men as much as the weeping. They grew stern with the repetition; in a way it calmed their own nerves, steeling them.

Irene Colquhoun stood against the mantelpiece, wringing her hands. On that shelf were pictures of the blonde girl, at all ages. No one else appeared in the photographs: only that same beaming, beautiful face.

‘Please sit down, Mrs Colquhoun,’ Lomond said. He placed a hand on her arm. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry we are about what’s happened.’

The dead girl’s mother allowed herself to be led to the couch. She was only in her mid-forties, but seemed older – as did the flat, Lomond realised. The net curtains, the floral print wallpaper, even the crocheted throw on the back of the leather settee.

Irene was still in a state of shock – jittery, full-beam shock, not the withdrawn, quiet kind. She was blonde herself and had her daughter’s hazel eyes, long, thin nose and prominent cheekbones.

‘Can’t take it in. Can’t take it,’ she said.

‘Is there someone around who can help you today?’ Lomond asked. ‘I don’t like the idea of you being left on your own here.’

‘My sister’s coming. She’s in Huntly. She’ll be down. Her and her man. Sometime soon.’ She clutched her hands, fingers working the knuckles, like a surgeon preparing for an operation. Perhaps they were in want of a rosary. ‘Mammy, daddy. Did she suffer? Can you tell me that?’

‘She didn’t suffer, Mrs Colquhoun. We’re pretty sure of that. She might not even have known anything about it.’

‘You’re not lying?’

‘I would never lie about something like that,’ Lomond said gently.

‘Mammy, daddy.’

‘Do you take a cup of tea, Irene?’ Slater asked, a touch too brightly.

‘Tea . . . what?’

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ Slater continued. ‘You probably don’t like people poking about your kitchen. I wouldn’t like it either. But I’ll tell you a secret . . . see my gaffer, here? You trust him with the tea, you’ll regret it. Now me, I’ve got the gift. Lots of milk, no milk, two sugars, one sugar, a half sugar, dark brown, too milky, trench warfare – pick a shade, say the word, and I’ll sort it for you.’

‘Sure. Just in the kitchen. Tea stuff’s beside the kettle. Wee tin for the tea bags. Coffee if you want it. There’s a mug stand.’

‘Perfect. Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just milk.’

Once Slater was gone, Lomond said, ‘I absolutely hate doing this. It’s the worst thing in the world. Seeing you like this. Having to see people suffer. I absolutely hate it. I say that from my heart.’

‘Can’t be easy,’ Irene said. ‘Can’t be easy, that. Coming to folk’s doors. The two lassies from earlier, who took me to ID her, they were lovely. Couldn’t have been nicer. Wanted to stay for a while.’

‘I’m so, so sorry, but I have to ask you a couple of questions.’

Irene’s face drooped. ‘It’s OK. You have to ask. You need to catch him. Whoever did it to my lassie.’

‘I’ll lift him, Irene,’ Lomond said. ‘You’ll see him in court. You’ll look him right in the face, I promise you.’

She nodded.

‘Did Aylie say she was in any danger? Did she mention anything to do with boyfriends, anyone like that?’

‘Aylie was a closed book. I didn’t know much about her. As an adult, like. She lived with me . . . but we didn’t get on. She was a teenager two minutes ago, near enough. She was just a girl.’ Irene’s intonation was blank, but her fingers dug into Lomond’s forearm.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Christmas. She was around for a couple of days. It was just me and her, though. She made a point of it, since her granny died. I know it’s boring for her. I head out to clean in the mornings, that’s my job, but that’s it. Nothing else. I like to stay in and watch the telly. Homebody. She was out and about, total opposite. She doesn’t take after me.’

‘She’s not been home since then? Christmas?’

Irene shook her head, and a tear dripped off the end of her nose. ‘Not in this house. I saw her on her birthday, in the town, not too much after that. January baby. We went out for a buffet. One of those Chinese places. All you can eat, you know? She barely ate a thing.’

‘She was clever, eh? History and politics, wasn’t that the subject she was doing?’

‘I think so. She should be in her last year now. Stopped it, though. Never said why. I was looking forward to putting her graduation photo up there with the rest.’ She gestured towards the mantelpiece, garlanded with images of the dead girl.

‘She told you how she was getting on?’

‘Just bits and pieces,’ Irene said. ‘Going to uni in Glasgow, and I never knew a thing about it. Her course. Then she just drops in that she’s out of it. She was always like that. A mystery.’

‘How about work?’

‘She said she was fine . . . took twenty quid off me, plus money for a taxi as well, when I met her. But she told me she had something – work in a pub, she said.’

‘How about pals?’

‘She did have friends – clever set at school. Tricia Mayweather. Marianne Henderson. They were her mates. The ones you would want your daughter to be friendly with. But they all moved away for uni – Trish was at Aberdeen, and I think Marianne got in at Sussex, of all places. Aylie hadn’t spent much time with them since school . . . To be honest, I didn’t keep much contact with her either. You never got much out of her.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to her?’

‘January. Like I said. Her birthday.’

‘You hadn’t spoken to her in ten months?’

Irene shook her head. ‘Just messages on the phone.’

‘Does she still have a room here? I’d like to take a look, if you don’t mind. It can tell you a lot about a person, especially the young ones. My lassie’s about the same age as Aylie – I know the score. A mystery at the best of times. You sometimes feel like you’re living with a stranger.’

‘Oh God, aye,’ Irene agreed readily. ‘The teenage years, especially. Mammy, daddy.’

‘I’ll be quick. And I promise I won’t be taking anything out of the house. You can come with me if you like. Or you can check if DS Slater’s tea is as bad as his patter.’

‘I resent that,’ Slater called out from the kitchen, in a mildly exasperated tone.

*

The bedroom hadn’t been dusted for a while – possibly since the last time it was slept in. Lomond noted the grubby patina coating the top of the dressing table, where deodorants, hairbrushes entwined with golden strands, and more toiletries stood to attention in a ragged line before a long mirror. There was a pile of paperwork to the side. Lomond’s keen eyes picked out the date on a bank statement, left at the top of the haphazard pile.

There were posters of pop stars – a little out of date, Lomond thought, and perhaps a little young-skewing for an older teenager. In contrast, over the bed was a print of Audrey Hepburn in her Breakfast at Tiffany’s dress, batting her lashes in black and white. A large print of the New York skyline dominated the wall, with postcards stuck in the frame. Most of these were from Malaga, though there were some from the United States, including Las Vegas’s neon outline. Lomond picked one out and studied the writing on the back.

‘Was Aylie into travel?’ he asked Irene.

‘Oh aye. That’s what she wanted to do. The big dream. World tour, backpacking. But she never had the time or the money.’

Lomond tucked the postcard back in the frame, then studied the back of another. ‘These are all from Gordon – that’s her dad?’

‘Aye,’ Irene said shortly, with a grimace. ‘Don’t be fooled. He’s never here. Had nothing to do with her. Postcards and a cheque in an envelope at birthday and Christmas – that’s been her lot since she was three.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘No idea. Last heard of in Malaga. A bar or something. Best place for him. And he sent those postcards, aye, but never sent an invitation to her, to get her over there. Even though she was desperate to go.’ Irene’s eyes widened. ‘Christ, I don’t know if he even knows . . .’

‘We’ll handle that for you,’ Lomond said. ‘You don’t have to worry about that.’

‘I just don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know what to say. I’ll have to tell my work. I don’t how I can cope.’

‘Your sister will be here soon. I’m so sorry, Irene. It’s rotten. Absolutely rotten. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I wish this wasn’t happening to you. It’s the worst.’

Lomond pointed to the picture of Audrey Hepburn in her black dress. ‘God . . . I thought that was a photograph. It’s a painting or a drawing, is that right? That’s some talent, that.’

‘Oh aye. She was an artist, definitely. Wish she’d done that, really. That was a talent and a half. I think she called it “photo-real” . . . She had the gift, that’s for sure. Off her dad’s side, I guess. I couldn’t draw you a bath.’

‘Is that Aylie’s signature, there? In the corner?’

‘It is. She loved her art. Never picked it up past third year at school – no idea why. Think she wanted to do politics, go into that. She thought she might be prime minister one day. But she had an amazing eye . . . Here, look at the book. This is her stuff.’

Irene picked up a large photo-album sized volume. It was filled with sketches and dress designs, faceless models in what appeared to be fifties style fashions. Ra-ra skirts, bobby socks, headbands. There were some rare splashes of colour – one red torrent in particular running through the kind of dress Jackie Kennedy had once worn with distinction particularly jarred Lomond – but by and large these were pencil sketches, black and white. This was not an area of Lomond’s expertise, but it seemed to be the work of a sure hand.

He paused at one image detailing underwear: brassieres, stockings, girdles and knickers which seemed to complement the fashions in the preceding pages. Every leaf was decorated with the signature on the Audrey Hepburn sketch – an A, transfixed with an arrow.

‘Incredible,’ Lomond said. ‘I would have thought she was into fashion design, not history or politics.’

‘That was a wee fad she had, right when she left school. Burlesque, they called it . . . I didn’t like the sound of it. She did club nights, when she was too young to go to them herself. Helping out on the doors and stuff. Think she told me she was getting into photography at one point.’

Lomond made a quick note. ‘Do you know what the club was called?’

‘No idea. I went mental at her when she told me. I was daft to do that. Never heard anything else about it from her again.’

Lomond paused before a portrait shot of the dead girl, a glossy photograph inserted into the album. Even in black and white you could tell that her skin was flawless. The eyes were frank, with a little mischief in them. The type of nose that might twitch when she smiled. Lomond would have sworn this was a professional photo, and he would also have sworn that the girl in the picture was in her mid-twenties, not her mid-to-late teens.

‘When was the last time she stayed the night?’ he asked.

‘As in stayed here? In her room?’

Lomond nodded.

‘Ah . . . I think . . . maybe about two, three years ago.’

‘Wouldn’t she have still been at school back then?’

‘Yep. Moved out before she left school, actually.’

Lomond frowned. ‘Moved where? Into halls at uni? A shared flat?’

‘I think so,’ Irene said. ‘Like you said. Teenager. They don’t tell you much.’ She even managed a chuckle.

‘How about bills, paperwork?’

‘You’re looking at it, right there. She’d come back for the odd bits and pieces. Not recently, though. She told me “I never met a bill I couldn’t outrun”.’

Lomond stared at the dead girl’s image. The composed, confident features were a dreadful juxtaposition with the face as Lomond had first seen it in the flesh, under the bright lights of Minchin’s examination room. When Minchin pointed out the ruin of her throat, clogged with grime. When he exposed the final grim secrets of her heart, her lungs, what had still been in her stomach, her bowels: even her brain.

Someone had taken this girl, as she was then, and with one single sure and confident stroke they had made an end of her, then pitched her into the water. Perhaps they’d shoved her; perhaps they’d kicked her between the shoulder blades. Perhaps she had been kneeling. And that had turned the girl in the photograph into the girl Lomond knew, the one on the slab. The one whose rivers had ceased to run.

Lomond cleared his throat. ‘Thanks for this. I can’t know what it cost you. Thank you.’

‘Whoever did this . . .’ Irene said, shaking her head. ‘Take him away, will you? Lock the door on him.’

‘Whoever he is, wherever he is – I’ll have him. That’s a promise.’

*

‘Mammy, daddy,’ Slater muttered, without a trace of humour, as they emerged from the security door. ‘She’s got no one, really. Totally on her own.’

Lomond fished out his phone. ‘She’s got a sister in Huntly. But she’ll have to wait until she arrives. Staring at the walls. I don’t think she’s even organised anything for the funeral. I’ll get someone on to that, to help her out. Hopefully, the sister can step in.’

‘Nothing else we can do,’ Slater said quietly.

‘Not for her, no.’

‘Weird one, though. The situation, I mean.’

‘Yeah. Didn’t seem to know anything about her own daughter. Fell out, I’m guessing.’

‘And her daughter moved out when she was school age. That bedroom was more like a shrine. Dust was thicker than my ma’s Christmas cake. And my ma doesn’t scrimp on the icing. Boyfriend?’

‘Maybe. I feel like we don’t know any more about Aylie Colquhoun than we did this morning. We’re going to, though.’

‘Anything new?’ Slater nodded towards Lomond’s phone.

‘We’ve spoken to Aylie’s flatmates. All solid alibis, it seems. Two had been on holiday for a week, the other was working on the rigs. Aylie had a job – worked at Mr Mojo’s.’

Slater frowned. ‘That name’s kind of familiar, but I don’t know why. Why is it familiar, gaffer?’

‘You tell me, Malcolm. Why is it kind of familiar? Also . . . do you have a hanky or something on you?’

‘Eh? What for?’

Lomond pointed to the car. On the passenger door, slashed in broad black strokes from a marker pen, were two words.

OINK OINK

3

Lomond and Slater cracked open the lids of their coffees. Slater took a sip, misjudged it, and scorched the roof of his mouth and tongue.

Content to wait a little and sniff at the rising steam from his cup, Lomond gazed at the Clyde, and the imposing block of flats across the water. They were at their favourite berth, a coffee kiosk by the Clydeside, tucked into a leafy nook near some metal benches.

‘Aylie worked in Mr Mojo’s, eh? I remember now – I was in there once.’

‘Oh aye? Mr Mojo’s, eh?’

‘It was a stag do.’

Lomond would not look at him. ‘A stag do. Right.’

‘Aye . . . Tommy McDonagh, guy I went to school with . . . hardly spoken to him since school, in fact. Think it freaked him out that I became a polis. Anyway. We ended up in Mr Mojo’s. Wasn’t my idea, I just went along with it.’

‘Sure.’ Lomond took a sip of coffee from the cardboard cup, trying to hide the smile that threatened to break ranks on his face. ‘Couldn’t have been down to you.’

‘Well, it wasn’t my party. I wasn’t the best man or anything. Not my shout.’

‘You did all you could, Malcolm.’

‘They had lassies from all kinds of places – Ecuador. All over.’

‘Ecuador seems very specific,’ Lomond mused.

‘Anyway, at midnight, they made them all take their tops off. As a freebie-type thing. I didn’t know where to look.’

‘Really?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Anyway, Tommy McDonagh decided to get his top off as well. Place went nuts. But I think some of the lassies disliked him taking the attention, and things kind of went south . . .’

DS Smythe appeared from the foliage, startling both of them. ‘Sir?’

‘Hi, Cara. Get you a coffee?’

‘No thanks. Just had one.’ She smiled at Slater. ‘You were in the middle of saying something?’

‘It’s fine. We can pick it up later,’ Slater said.

Smythe turned to Lomond. ‘I spoke to the workmate on the phone.’

‘Oh aye – workmate at Mr Mojo’s, you mean?’

Smythe nodded. ‘Interesting one – apparently, Aylie Colquhoun was due to work on Saturday night, but she swapped shifts with the workmate for the Friday instead.’

‘She know why?’

Smythe shook her head.

‘Think we’d best head out there and talk to her,’ Lomond said.

After a pause, Slater said, ‘Maybe we’d better talk to all of them. You know. We didn’t know she worked there till today. Something’s bound to turn up there.’

Lomond and Smythe shared a look. Then they both burst out laughing.

Slater’s face was pink. ‘Well . . . just saying . . .’

‘You think we’re going over to Mr Mojo’s? A strip club? That Mr Mojo’s? That one you went to for a stag do?’ Lomond could barely get the words out. Smythe covered her mouth with her hands and turned away.

‘Well . . .’ Slater straightened his jacket collar.

‘You and me? In a strip club!’ Lomond was still laughing. Even the bored woman at the kiosk looked up from her phone for a moment, smiling. ‘Away and have a talk with yourself. We’d come out cross-eyed. This one’s women only. Cara’s going. She’ll pick up everything we would miss – which would possibly be everything.’

‘See you back at the office!’ Slater snapped. He put the coffee to his lips, forgetting about the nuclear temperature, flinched, and then hurled the cup into a rust-rimmed bin close to the bench.

Once he was gone, Smythe said, ‘Have you ever seen him embarrassed? I’ve seen him angry, but never embarrassed.’

‘Ach, I shouldn’t make fun of him. I’ll pay the penalty for it, don’t you worry. Slater’s too wide to take a slagging for long. How’d you get on with the side project?’

‘A blank, so far. I’ve got a paper trail to chase up tomorrow. I’ll crack on with Mr Mojo’s. Anything turn up at the mother’s place?’

‘Just more mysteries, to be honest. Aylie’s work is the main line to follow. I’ll let you in on what I have in mind once you’ve got back to me later on, see if things add up.’

*

In the café of the Centre of Contemporary Arts, DS Smythe spotted Nerine Guzman from a long way off. She was hunched over her phone, chin close to the table. Even seated, Smythe could tell she was tall and long-limbed. Her muscled neck and shoulders marked her out as a dancer – perhaps even a ballerina. She had curly hair drawn back into a tight ponytail, with loose strands falling across a pretty, freckled face. Brown eyes looked up, startled, as Smythe stopped at the table.

‘Excuse me – are you Nerine?’

‘Oh, you’re the policewoman.’ She spoke with a distinct accent. She was second generation, Smythe knew, her parents having come from the former Yugoslavia just before it broke up. ‘I thought you would be wearing a uniform.’

‘Afraid not – plain clothes for me. Can I sit down?’

‘Of course.’ Guzman straightened up. The word was statuesque, Smythe thought. She stopped herself from squaring her shoulders to match the stance.

‘I’m so sorry to have to speak to you in these circumstances. It must be a terrible shock, losing a workmate this way.’

Nerine gestured helplessly. ‘What can you say? It’s unbelievable. She was killed, is that right? Murdered?’

‘We’re still awaiting confirmation, but – yes. Off the record, someone killed her.’

‘I spoke to her three nights ago. We swapped shifts . . .’ Nerine shook her head. ‘It’s a shock. I broke down and cried when I found out. Then I locked the doors in my flat. Horrible, you know? I had my boyfriend with me, but I didn’t want to go out for a whole day.’

‘Were you good friends?’

‘I hadn’t known her long, but we got close, yes. I’d been round her flat . . . helped her decorate her room. She hadn’t long moved. Complained about the colour of the paint on her walls. It was only magnolia, I said. What’s the problem? Magnolia is everywhere. She said, “That’s the point!” She wanted pistachio. That’s what she was like. She pushed for it, they agreed – the landlord. The mess it made of my clothes.’ Nerine shook her head. ‘Means absolutely nothing, now.’

‘Exactly how long had you known her?’

‘Since she came to work at Mr Mojo’s. She was a good dancer – popular. That blonde hair, the boys loved her. But she was nice. Younger than she looked. I was a bit of a big sister for her, I guess. We talked a lot. She was talented, you know, creative. Designer. Wanted to design her own clothes. A performer, too. Taught herself. Why she did politics at uni I’ll never know. She said there was never a path for her to do design. So she taught herself.’

‘You say she was popular – did she have any regulars at the club? Anyone who got a bit too fond of her?’

Nerine sighed. ‘We’ve all got our fans. And we do have men who come in often. Regulars, as you say. Mostly they’re harmless.’

‘Mostly?’

‘Some get a bit too attached, and we have to get the boys in to move them on.’

‘Ever any trouble?’

‘There’s trouble now and again. Drunks. Guys who want a bit more than a dance. Stag dos are the worst.’

Smythe thought of Slater, wondered what his face would look like in Mr Mojo’s darkened corners. ‘Any trouble you can remember around Aylie?’

Nerine shook her head. ‘No . . . well. There was one man. Older. Or he looked older, anyway. Bald. Quite heavyset. Nice looking but not fit. He might still have been in his twenties, you know the type. Sometimes he’d appear on a Friday night, still in his office clothes. Suit, collar and tie. Not an expensive suit. He took a real shine to Aylie. He tipped her quite a bit. One time she tried giving it back to him – “No, that’s too much,” she said. That was the kind of girl she was.’

‘You know his name?’

‘She talked about him as Colin . . . something like that. I never danced for him, so I don’t know for sure.’

Smythe was already taking notes. ‘So he had a thing for her?’

‘Definitely. He didn’t seem like one of the weird ones. I’ve had a few of them. He was kinder, respectful. A lot of the regulars are respectful. They adore us, I would say. You know how some men get. Hopeless.’

‘Would you say Colin was well known among the managers?’

‘Definitely. When he finds out what happened, poor man . . .’ Nerine’s hands flew to her face. Then she broke down. Smythe’s hands covered hers. ‘Sorry,’ Nerine said, voice creaking. ‘It’s so hard to believe . . . Did she suffer? Was it a pervert who did it?’

‘Again, off the record . . . she didn’t suffer. We’re quite sure of that. It’s a strange one. I can’t say any more, but I can put your mind at ease on that point.’

‘Thank God.’

‘What else can you tell us about Aylie? Was there a boyfriend?’

Nerine shook her head. ‘No. I think there was someone she knew at uni. But that ended after her first year – or second year? I think the boy took off for somewhere else, another university. She started work at Mr Mojo’s just before she dropped out. The money was decent.’

‘Cash in hand? There’s no record of her working at Mr Mojo’s officially.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Nerine said, far too quickly. ‘I pay my taxes.’

Smythe waved her other hand. ‘I’m not interested in that. It’s more Aylie I’m concerned with – as a person. And her movements. What was she like to work with? You said she was creative.’

‘Oh . . . you’ve no idea.’ Nerine opened a slim black handbag and brought out a tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes. ‘She wanted to create and choreograph her own performance. Burlesque, you know? I think she’d done club nights. The fifties, that was her thing, you know? Costumes, very Jackie O. She had a whole performance worked out, a routine. “Hey honey, I’m home”, she called it. As if she was waiting for her husband to get back from work. She was always looking for a set, a sort of fifties show home. She wore this beautiful underwear, like . . . not vintage, but vintage style. She was so into it. That’s where Shea spotted her, the boss. Persuaded her to give Mr Mojo’s a try. She thought he was smitten, but he tried that act with me, too. And the rest of the girls.’ She grinned. Smythe saw that she had a cute gap in her front teeth and thought, That seals it. A model, definitely.

‘She seemed to have a passion for design, vintage clothes.’

‘That’s for sure.’

‘She still do the burlesque performances? Club nights, cabaret, that kind of thing? They used to do those at the Chancellery, I think.’

‘That might have been the place she started – but she hadn’t done those performances for a while. Too busy, she said. She had some work lined up, here and there. In fact that’s why she wanted to swap shifts. You know. She was meant to be in on Saturday but swapped me for my Friday. Is that . . . when it happened?’

‘We’re not sure exactly. We’ll know in a few days.’

‘God . . .’ Tears spilled down Nerine’s cheeks. ‘Poor girl. So beautiful. And funny. She was tough, you know? A tough kid, from the streets. Tougher than I ever was. She was the real thing. But vulnerable, in a way. I wanted to look after her. She was only twenty.’

‘What was the reason for her not working on the Saturday?’

‘She had another gig.’ Nerine lowered her voice. ‘Something on the side. It was starting to work out for her. It was a way for her to work on her performance. Seemed to be going really well . . .’

‘Whereabouts was this? Another club night?’

‘No, she worked from home. Cam work.’

‘Say that again, please – cam work?’

‘You know. Video camera. Online stuff. At home. Performing. You need me to fill in the blanks? She was doing it from home. The dances. It got the money in.’

‘She was working for herself? Or for another outfit?’

‘I don’t know – it could have been a do-it-yourself job. You can turn yourself into your own industry now, your own brand. She told me it was classy. That was the word. Said it let her try out her personal routines, try new stuff. She said she was paid well for it. There was a name . . . My something or other. She had a gig booked for the Saturday night. That’s why she swapped . . . That’s why she died, I guess.’

Nerine Guzman paused, then. Her face was blank. The dreadful finality of it, and the guilt to come, snatched the expression off her face.

Smythe felt her own eyes water at this desolation. She blinked to control it.

‘No,’ the policewoman said, underlining her last note, ‘that wasn’t why she died at all.’

4

Back at the office, Lomond sipped at his coffee.

Slater sat down at the desk opposite him. ‘No word on CCTV yet, gaffer?’

‘Nothing,’ Lomond said. ‘It’s not out of the question that the body came a long way. I’ve asked the Humane Society to get back to me about tidal patterns.’

‘No decent tips?’

‘A couple that haven’t checked out. One mentions “a lassie waiting for someone” at a bus stop near her flat, but it was only a nosy neighbour who reckons the girl had dark hair. Aylie was blonde.’ Lomond rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

‘Thoughts so far?’

‘How do you mean?’

Slater sat forward and lowered his voice. Unconsciously echoing Chick Minchin, he said, ‘Looks ritualistic, doesn’t it? Weird. No sign of sexual assault?’

‘Minchin said it didn’t seem like it, but they’re still doing tests. We don’t know for sure. Body in the water – it changes things. Means you don’t quite get all the evidence you’d like.’

‘Guy knew that, eh? Whoever did it. Knows the form.’

‘We are definitely dealing with a daftie,’ Lomond agreed.

‘Random?’

‘Too soon to say, Malcolm. Way too soon. Boyfriends have done worse.’

‘We’ll get a lead. The clothes, for a start. Unless he made her take them off first.’

‘I think he . . .’ Lomond paused, collected himself and ended the line of thought. ‘We’ll see. Minchin didn’t notice any other obvious wounds. Nothing that suggested she’d been on her knees. Nothing that suggested she’d been harmed before it. Nothing to suggest she tried to protect herself. Or had time to.’

‘I’m thinking . . . and I’m just making a suggestion, before you shoot me down . . . he made her kneel, cut her throat, then removed the clothes. They’re probably in flames as we speak. Buttons in a grate. I reckon we need to find a car. He surely used a car to transport her. We’ll get him,’ Slater affirmed. ‘Quick as you like. Don’t sweat it. How about her mobile?’

‘Switched off. Last ping was in the outskirts. Can’t triangulate it.’

‘Travelling by road?’

‘Possibly. There was a footpath running along the side of the road where her signal cuts off. It was heading out into the sticks. No witnesses.’

‘Calls?’

Lomond sighed. ‘Annoyingly, no. Nothing on the log. Calls to friends at Mr Mojo’s – a couple to Nerine Guzman, arranging the shift swap. Possibly some chat via an app, some instant messaging. Harder for us to get to. Red tape. We’d have to find the phone to be sure. And even then, we can’t be positive.’

Smythe came in. Out of the three, she looked the least tired, though she had arguably had the busier day. She nodded at Slater and pulled out a seat. Slater sat up straight and edged his chair away slightly.

‘Anything?’ Lomond asked.

‘Loads,’ Smythe said. She pulled up the cuffs on her jacket and rested her hands on the desk. ‘First, I got hold of the manager at Mr Mojo’s. Quite a tight ship – professional, so far as these places can go. Not quite a sticky carpet kind of shop.’ She glanced, quickly, at Slater, then continued: ‘She was shocked, tearful on the phone. Gave a couple of officers a statement. She confirmed what Nerine Guzman told me – that Aylie worked on a casual basis, cash in hand plus tips. She did well, earned well, was well liked by the punters and the other girls who worked there. She didn’t know about the cam stuff.’

‘Cam stuff?’ Slater asked.

‘Yeah – according to Nerine, Aylie made some money on the side doing stuff on cams.’

‘Webcams? Sex work, you mean?’

‘No, that wasn’t it. She was a performer – burlesque, outfits, choreography. She had an act: fifties housewife, I think, is the best way of describing it.’

Slater snorted. ‘Yeah. A fifties housewife who takes her clothes off. Gotcha.’

Smythe frowned and compressed her lips in irritation. She refused to take the bait. ‘We don’t know what it means. Nerine Guzman said it was a performance. She seemed slightly in awe of Aylie, but I don’t know whether grief is doing that or sympathy . . .’ She shook her head. ‘We’ll need to see what kind of stuff she was doing and who she was doing it with.’

‘They’re taking her computer apart now,’ Lomond said. ‘Laptop was found at her flat – plus what looked like a home studio to me. Blackout curtains, photographer’s screen, light meter. Professional kit. Plus costumes, the kind of thing you’re talking about. Vintage clothes – a collection of them. All packed away in plastic. A portfolio of photos – again, not amateur stuff. It won’t take long to find out what the platform was, who took them, that sort of thing. And from there, it won’t take long to nail who did it.’

‘There’s the problem with the swapped shift,’ Slater said. ‘I think that’s the flaw, surely. The night she was killed, she was meant to be working.’

Lomond nodded. ‘She changed it quite suddenly. Short notice. There’s nothing on her wall calendar or in her online organiser to indicate what the issue was. But there’s no doubt in my mind that finding out where she went is the key. It’s the line to follow for now.’

Smythe asked: ‘Boyfriends?’

‘Flatmates said she hadn’t brought anyone back for months,’ Slater said, riffling through his notes. ‘None of them really knew what she did for a living. Nice enough, bit of a stranger, intriguing lifestyle but didn’t mingle. They thought she did bar work, worked nights at a club. And she might have done. Landlord didn’t ask questions, either, so long as the rent came in. She didn’t introduce them to any boyfriends, but she’d only been there eight months. And some nights she didn’t come back at all. She seems to have earned cash in hand. Rent got paid. Nobody asked questions.’

‘The flatmates definitely ruled out?’ Smythe asked.

Lomond nodded. ‘As far as I’m concerned. Out of town. Loads of witnesses. Time-stamped pictures on social media. Solid alibis.’

Slater continued: ‘She hadn’t had a serious boyfriend since the end of her first year at uni, it looks like. He’s out as well. Seems she pined after him, according to her friend at uni. Not clear who dumped who. Seems she wanted him back. We took a statement – Jennifer Curran, the pal. Said she faded out in her second year, late nights. Uni was incidental. Then irrelevant. Aylie’d been disillusioned with the course. Said she’d taken the wrong journey in life. Said she wanted to be a designer, work in theatre.’

‘Theatre, performance, design,’ Lomond said, making a note to himself on his pad. ‘Clothes. The cam work. This is what I can’t get past. This is what I need to find out. It’s what’s making me most curious.’

‘There must be something on social media,’ Slater mused. ‘I had a look on Facebook, but she hasn’t updated her personal profile in months. Looks like she hardly updated it anyway. One or two photos at Christmas, with her mother at the flat in Castlemilk. No sign of her performance stuff on the personal profile – I would have thought she would have had a second account, but no. I’m guessing there must be another account somewhere, though, for her sex work stuff. People who do the cam work have to put themselves in the shop window, so to speak.’

Smythe cleared her throat. ‘We’re making an assumption here about sex work, and I think we need to be careful.’

‘It’s a reasonable assumption,’ Slater said.

‘No, it isn’t. If it turns out you’re right, I’ll happily accept it. But this doesn’t sound like regular cam work. She had an act at the club, apparently. She liked to wear the vintage costumes, including the underwear, when she performed for customers. Management indulged it. She was popular. I think there’s a bit more to it than just sex. On her side, anyway.’

‘Cases like this, it’s always down to sex,’ Slater said. ‘You can dress it up any way you want, you can attach any sort of artistic, critical, look-at-me hoo-ha, label you like. End of the day, eye of the beholder, cam work is for the benefit of perverts. A pervert killed her. I don’t want to go down the wrong path here – it might turn out to be an ex-boyfriend or a creepy punter at Mr Mojo’s – but whoever did it was motivated by one thing, and it wasn’t big fancy skirts and baking cookies.’

‘Any theories in particular you want to share?’ Smythe asked, a little tartly.

‘Flick?’

‘What?’ Lomond sat up. His tone of voice drew attention from around the office, a sudden shriek of feedback.

‘Is it Mr Flick?’ Slater asked warily. ‘It’s something we’ll get asked, anyway. Whenever something like this crops up. Is there a possibility?’

‘Not a chance,’ Lomond said. ‘Mr Flick was a mutilator. This guy did it clean, or as cleanly as you could.’

‘I’ll see if there’s any pattern that fits in,’ Slater said.

‘You can try. I wouldn’t waste your time.’ Lomond changed the subject. ‘Anything else come up on the other thing, Cara?’

She frowned. ‘Well, yes, and no. It’s weird. First, there was the throat wound. That’s similar, though just one side of the neck. Carotid, done from behind.’

‘Whoa.’ Slater raised a hand. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on? Is this another one? If it’s part of the investigation, I want in on it, gaffer.’

Lomond pondered a moment. ‘There was an unsolved case. About twenty-five years ago. When I was in uniform.’

‘What, the Lawlor girl?’ Slater said. He shrugged. ‘Well-enough known case. What’s the secrecy?’

‘Yes. Daisy Lawlor.’ Lomond drummed his fingers a moment. ‘She was found in the pond at Rafferty Landing. Big country house in Lanarkshire.’

‘You weren’t first one at the scene again, were you?’ Slater asked.

Smythe tutted at the tastelessness of the question, but Lomond answered, his tone unchanged: ‘No, but I did work at the scene. And I did see the body. Naked, placed in water. Similar wounds. Not identical, though.’ His brow was troubled for a moment, then he turned to Smythe. ‘That’s why I asked Cara to check whether any of the details match up while we talked to Mrs Colquhoun.’

Slater shrugged. ‘Fair enough. Not sure why you had to go secret squirrel, though.’

‘The secret is . . . well, Cara’ll tell you,’ Lomond said, nodding at Smythe.

‘The secret is the secrecy itself,’ she replied. ‘Rafferty Landing was owned by the Earl of Strathdene. Ancient family, ancient house, ancient money. Daisy Lawlor was found in the pond at the back of the house. Her throat had been cut, but just at the carotid, and done post-mortem. The fatal wounds were delivered to the back, from behind, before the throat was cut. Daisy was full of ecstasy and drink. There was no sign she had been sexually assaulted. She was from a middle-class family, but they hadn’t had much contact with her for a while. She was reckoned to be a free spirit.’ She nodded to Lomond, who acknowledged what she was driving at.

‘Sounds familiar,’ Slater said.

‘She wasn’t from the area. She was thought to have been hitchhiking, heading for the A82, going west, but first of all she was going to a festival. Meeting up with schoolfriends. This was all pre-internet, pre-mobile phones, remember.’

‘Bit of a stink about the earl, wasn’t there?’ Slater asked. ‘I’m going by what I’ve read over the years.’

‘He was never linked to the body,’ Smythe replied. ‘He had a lot of land out there – a big enough estate for people to camp out in, which it seems they did, over the summer months. There was a heatwave that year.’

Lomond nodded. ‘Yep. Boiling. Hottest summer I could remember. That didn’t help, either. With the body.’

‘So there were squatters, ravers, travellers, all staying on the estate. The old earl was a tolerant guy. Too tolerant, it seems. The body was found a couple of days later.’

‘Who got pulled in for it?’ Slater asked.

‘This is where it gets murky,’ Smythe replied. ‘Or murkier, anyway. It seems that the earl was away the weekend Daisy Lawlor was killed. And his son was holding a house party.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Slater mused. ‘I’m sure I cross-referenced Daisy Lawlor a couple of times when we were investigating other cases.’

‘That’s where the secrecy comes in.’ Smythe’s eyes brightened at this point. ‘There was an interdict made in the case, banning any mention of the earl’s son anywhere in media coverage. He’s not mentioned much in our notes, either, except to say that he’d been eliminated from inquiries. Several travellers who were heading for the west coast were pulled – it seems she got onto the estate with them – and there was one good suspect, someone who’d been in and out of jail. But there was no evidence to bring, and we never charged anyone for it.’

‘Who’s the son?’ Slater asked. ‘What am I missing, here?’

‘Torquod Rafferty,’ Lomond said. ‘I haven’t kept much of an eye on him, but he was a suspect, that’s for sure. He dropped out of the inquiry – he had a solid alibi, and there was nothing to tie him to the body. Same with three other friends he had invited over to stay that weekend. He had a party on the Friday night. On the Saturday, Daisy Lawlor was killed, and her body was dumped in a pond at the rear of the estate, close to the gates and the camp site where the travellers had stayed.’

‘Torquod Rafferty and the other friends were staying at a hunting lodge on another estate, about thirty miles away, on the Saturday night,’ Smythe continued. ‘There was no evidence at the lodge that Daisy Lawlor had ever been there. And there was a solid alibi for the four of them who were – Rafferty, his best mate, and two girls who were staying with them.’

‘Cover-up stinks,’ Slater said, nodding. ‘I can see why it rankles.’

‘How long is it since you looked in on Torquod Rafferty?’ Smythe asked the inspector.

‘I have to confess, it could be ten, fifteen years – the time gets away from you,’ Lomond said.

‘Well, he’s been busy, sir. And he’s changed his name. And renounced his title. This might shock you.’

Smythe had a Sunday supplement from the previous weekend under her arm; she raised it and pointed to the photograph on the cover. A handsome man with clear, pale blue eyes and thick eyelashes, wearing a blue-grey suit, tieless, with the shirt collar open. He had a pale yellow inflatable rubber ring around his middle, with a gormless duck face protruding around about where his navel would have been. On top of his head was a frogman’s mask, with a snorkel trailing by his ear. He held an open umbrella, and the face was stoic, mock-serious, but very handsome, if a little pock-marked.

Lomond started forward, took the magazine, and gazed at it incredulously. ‘You’re joking!’ he cried.

5

As if in a dream, the boat sheared through the Clyde. It looked more suited to the Caribbean or Monaco – somewhere where the sky and the water would have shared the same tangy blue of a child’s felt-tip pen. There it might have been at home, but here it only denoted power, from the razor-edged trim of the hull to the easy growl of the engines that Lomond felt through the soles of his feet.

There was one man at the wheel on the deck, and he waved to the assembled press pack by the Clydeside.

Torin MacAllister’s straggly fringe was already the subject of mockery – both gentle and savage – among caricaturists the length of the UK. Flying away from his fine clear brow, it simply looked . . . Lomond sought another phrase, but in vain . . . windswept and interesting. The rest of the face was fine, clear and chiselled. In spite of some rain earlier, there was no sign that he was in any way soggy.

‘No life jacket,’ Slater said, at Lomond’s ear. ‘Can we lift him for that?’

‘Don’t know if it’s essential on a private boat.’

‘I’ll check, though,’ Slater said, flipping open his phone. ‘Bound to be regulations.’

‘Let’s talk nice to him first.’

MacAllister looked relaxed even as he performed a spin in the middle of the waterway. For a delicate second or two, Lomond thought the pilot had overcooked it, and the vessel lurched to starboard, threatening to capsize. But the issue soon righted itself, and MacAllister punched the air imperiously.

‘Tart,’ Slater remarked.

Some of the press corps by the waterside cheered as he performed one more turn before bringing the boat to a berth on the quay by the water’s edge. The landing stage in the foreground was pale blue shot through with white waves, and a banner and bunting all in the same colours and a full marquee had been set up on this platform. The campaign slogan was written across the top of the tent: The fish that swam.

Two men at the dockside helped tie up the vessel. There was a strange tension when MacAllister cut the engines, then trooped down the stairs towards them.

‘I’ll be delighted if he falls,’ Slater said, clapping enthusiastically along with the cheering crowd.

‘Bit noisy, this bunch, for a political stunt,’ Lomond said.

‘More plants than the Botanic Gardens, gaffer. Are there really that many Tories here? This city? Seriously?’

‘Better believe it,’ Lomond said. ‘This guy’s going to the top. So they tell me.’

‘So a paper told you, you mean?’

A man in a duffel coat tested the mic once or twice, then addressed the waiting press pack and the supporters. ‘Now, without further ado, the man who’s going to take West Ochilbank in Westminster – the face of the future, Torin MacAllister!’

‘Torin MacAllister my arse. Who’s the guy in the Paddington Bear get-up? We know him?’ Slater asked.

‘That’s Donald Ward.’

‘Artist?’ Slater squinted. ‘Won a portrait prize or something? Looks like they found him under the Kingston Bridge.’

Lomond shrugged. ‘Well . . . he’s an artist.’

‘What’s the connection with Rafferty?’

‘They’ve been friends since the year dot,’ Lomond said. ‘Since primary school. Or your nearest dreaming spires, available for only one full mortgage per term.’

‘Meaning he was there at the party at Rafferty Landing where that lassie died?’

‘Yeah. Him, MacAllister-stroke-Rafferty, and the two lassies.’

‘All cleared?’

‘All cleared, and subject to an interdict once they were cleared.’

‘Torin MacAllister,’ Slater said again, as if trying the words for size. ‘Torin . . . What I don’t get,’ he muttered from one side of his mouth, ‘is the name. I get why he’d want to change Torquod. Why would you then go to Torin?’

‘Sounds nicer. I quite like Torin. Could see myself calling my son that, if I’d had one. Torquod, though . . . Kind of sounds like a mouthful of marbles, you know that way?’

‘Torquod,’ Slater said, trying it out in a strangulated voice. ‘Yeah, a bit.’

‘Also sounds like Torquemada.’

‘I didn’t expect the Spanish Inquisition.’

‘No one expects the Spanish Inquisition,’ Lomond responded dutifully.

‘It’s just . . . Torin? I could see if he went for Tommy or Terry or something like that. But, instead, it’s Torin. He’s gone from very weird to kind of unusual. Why bother at all?’

‘Still quite posh, but Celtic, in a way. He’s coy about his connection to the earldom – although he’s given that up to take a seat at Westminster. Or so he hopes.’

‘He’s not got a chance, has he?’

‘Very high approval ratings. Takes a nice photie.’