job.
She had an idea but the torches, all three of them, didnât fit in any way that made sense. Still, at least it was a place to start.
With a final crashing note, the song in her head stopped. Goodbye Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo and Haynes. The man in the tunnel wasnât an RH at all.
Second-hand clothes, worn and dirty. Good footwear an essential. No one to know heâd gone missing. No employer or loved one to call the police. No one can miss you if they donât know
youâre there to begin with.
She picked up the evidence bag with the little wooden key ring in it, staring at the initials and seeing them for what they really were. She signed the bag out and slipped it into her coat
pocket, switched off the last of the lights and left the building.
The initials didnât stand for a personâs name at all. It was a place. And she was sure she knew where.
When she phoned the operations room the next morning, she couldnât help but sigh inside when it was Fraser Toshney, one of the DCs, who answered. She guessed heâd
have to do.
âFraser, meet me in the car park in about ten minutes. Never mind why. Weâre going to do some visiting. Weâre going to start at the Rosewood Hotel.â
âThe down-and-outsâ place? Really?â He didnât sound best pleased.
âYes, really. And after that maybe every shop doorway between here and Dumbarton. And, Fraser? Take that moaning look off your face. Donât think I canât see it.â
âYes, Boss.â
Chapter 8
Sunday morning
Remy was off work. Heâd managed less than half a day collecting trolleys at the store before declaring himself sick. And he was, just not in any way he could explain to
them.
Heâd probably always known that his hobby would get him into trouble one day. Going in places he shouldnât. Climbing up things he shouldnât. Thatâs why the word
shouldnât
had been in there. And thatâs why heâd always done it.
Now he was paying the price. His old man had always said that nothing was free in this world. There was an old coffee table in his dadâs front room that heâd âgot freeâ
by collecting Kensitas Club coupons that came with his cigarettes and then exchanged at the shop in Cambridge Street. Of course, it wasnât free at all and he paid for it by acquiring
progressive lung disease. Not much of a deal really.
Remy wasnât exactly what youâd call a rebel. No marching to ban the bomb even though he thought they should, no protest against globalization or Starbucks or Nestlé or Disney.
He was more of a quiet rebel, a personal rebel, making his protest against the world by ignoring
No Entry
signs. He didnât need them to tell him what was good for him or bad for him or
whether an old building might fall on his head. It was
his
head.
Maybe loving buildings was his problem. Or loving Glasgow. Or being a bit weird. People might have thought he was odd if they knew he explored derelict hospitals, old schools or abandoned
factories but what the hell would they think if they knew he had found that fucking body?
He couldnât stop thinking about it. Every time he closed his eyes it was there, its face staring back at his. Those empty eye sockets. The chewed cheeks. That poor bugger killed down there
and left to rot. Stuck in that tunnel forever if he hadnât been down there to find him. Now the cops would be examining every bit of him.
Two years on and off, Remy and Gabby had been going exploring together. Two years in which theyâd become best friends but not boyfriend and girlfriend. He was a boy, she
was a girl. They were friends. That was it.
Theyâd trawled the muddy old railway tunnels that ran under London Road where they danced on the rusting remains of an ancient car. They managed to get into the former Woolworths building
on Argyle Street and wandered through the
She had an idea but the torches, all three of them, didnât fit in any way that made sense. Still, at least it was a place to start.
With a final crashing note, the song in her head stopped. Goodbye Henaghan, Hendry, Hegde, Hughes, Hillman, Handoo and Haynes. The man in the tunnel wasnât an RH at all.
Second-hand clothes, worn and dirty. Good footwear an essential. No one to know heâd gone missing. No employer or loved one to call the police. No one can miss you if they donât know
youâre there to begin with.
She picked up the evidence bag with the little wooden key ring in it, staring at the initials and seeing them for what they really were. She signed the bag out and slipped it into her coat
pocket, switched off the last of the lights and left the building.
The initials didnât stand for a personâs name at all. It was a place. And she was sure she knew where.
When she phoned the operations room the next morning, she couldnât help but sigh inside when it was Fraser Toshney, one of the DCs, who answered. She guessed heâd
have to do.
âFraser, meet me in the car park in about ten minutes. Never mind why. Weâre going to do some visiting. Weâre going to start at the Rosewood Hotel.â
âThe down-and-outsâ place? Really?â He didnât sound best pleased.
âYes, really. And after that maybe every shop doorway between here and Dumbarton. And, Fraser? Take that moaning look off your face. Donât think I canât see it.â
âYes, Boss.â
Chapter 8
Sunday morning
Remy was off work. Heâd managed less than half a day collecting trolleys at the store before declaring himself sick. And he was, just not in any way he could explain to
them.
Heâd probably always known that his hobby would get him into trouble one day. Going in places he shouldnât. Climbing up things he shouldnât. Thatâs why the word
shouldnât
had been in there. And thatâs why heâd always done it.
Now he was paying the price. His old man had always said that nothing was free in this world. There was an old coffee table in his dadâs front room that heâd âgot freeâ
by collecting Kensitas Club coupons that came with his cigarettes and then exchanged at the shop in Cambridge Street. Of course, it wasnât free at all and he paid for it by acquiring
progressive lung disease. Not much of a deal really.
Remy wasnât exactly what youâd call a rebel. No marching to ban the bomb even though he thought they should, no protest against globalization or Starbucks or Nestlé or Disney.
He was more of a quiet rebel, a personal rebel, making his protest against the world by ignoring
No Entry
signs. He didnât need them to tell him what was good for him or bad for him or
whether an old building might fall on his head. It was
his
head.
Maybe loving buildings was his problem. Or loving Glasgow. Or being a bit weird. People might have thought he was odd if they knew he explored derelict hospitals, old schools or abandoned
factories but what the hell would they think if they knew he had found that fucking body?
He couldnât stop thinking about it. Every time he closed his eyes it was there, its face staring back at his. Those empty eye sockets. The chewed cheeks. That poor bugger killed down there
and left to rot. Stuck in that tunnel forever if he hadnât been down there to find him. Now the cops would be examining every bit of him.
Two years on and off, Remy and Gabby had been going exploring together. Two years in which theyâd become best friends but not boyfriend and girlfriend. He was a boy, she
was a girl. They were friends. That was it.
Theyâd trawled the muddy old railway tunnels that ran under London Road where they danced on the rusting remains of an ancient car. They managed to get into the former Woolworths building
on Argyle Street and wandered through the
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