DI Brownlee stood shivering as the scene of crime officers made valiant attempts to cordon off the area. The man’s body had been secreted between the banks of a stream, its icy surface obscuring the corpse. The torchlight showed him a partially burned figure lying face down, arms splayed out, the face disfigured by the depredations of some animal or other.

  ‘Dumped here deliberately, you reckon?’ he asked, turning to Hutton, the dog now firmly on a lead, panting by his side.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Douglas Hutton replied. ‘Must have lain here for a while.’

  ‘We’ll know more once he’s back in the mortuary,’ Brownlee said firmly.

  ‘Bit of a coincidence,’ Hutton remarked. ‘Two bodies on the Braes. Both of them burned … ?’

  Brownlee nodded then looked up as a tall figure made its way down towards them.

  ‘Aye. And if I know anything, that’ll be a certain detective superintendent heading our way. Guy famous for not believing in coincidences,’ he added grimly.

  Douglas Hutton screwed up his eyes as the man appeared out of the mist. Big guy, he thought, watching him intently, noting the broad shoulders and the nimble way he traversed the narrow path. Used to hills, Hutton decided, not a slouch. Then, as the man came closer, he caught a glimpse of his face.

  ‘Lorimer?’ he whispered, turning to Brownlee.

  ‘Aye, keeps turning up at crime scenes like the proverbial bad penny,’ Brownlee growled.

  Hutton said nothing in reply but raised a hand in greeting as Lorimer stepped nimbly over the burn and came to join them.

  ‘This is DS Hutton,’ Brownlee explained. ‘Was out with his dog when they found the body down here.’

  Lorimer gave Hutton a nod and a faint smile of recognition.

  ‘It was Gareth that found him,’ Hutton explained. ‘We were on our way back from a walk when he hared off and I lost sight of him.’

  ‘Where exactly did your dog pick up the scent?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Well, he disappeared below the ridges,’ Hutton began. ‘It must have been at the start of the track that goes over the top and down here to the Harelaw Burn.’

  ‘Nearest road?’

  Hutton frowned. ‘Well, there’s the main road that goes through Barrhead, past Cross Stobs where I live. Winds a bit towards the abattoir then onwards to Paisley. Nearest access from there would be Caplethill where a farm road turns up.’

  ‘Need to get someone on to that as soon as,’ Brownlee said, pre-empting the senior officer. ‘Too dark tonight and besides, this fellow’s lain here for a good while, I suspect.’

  ‘There’s access from the golf course over that way.’ Hutton pointed through the dark. ‘But you’d need to be pretty fit to cart a dead body all the way from there.’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t dead when he arrived here,’ Lorimer murmured, gazing through the gathering dusk. Hutton and Brownlee exchanged glances behind his back as the detective superintendent stood motionless.

  ‘Of Asian origin, five feet five tall, somewhere in his mid-twenties, I’d guess, and from the state of his teeth and how underweight he is, I’d say he’s been neglecting himself.’

  Rosie glanced up at Lorimer from behind her protective visor. The post-mortem necessitated use of a high-powered tool to saw into bone, fragments of which might hit the face or eyes of an examining pathologist. She was used to the noises of her particular trade, the whine of the saw, the scalpel ripping through dead flesh and the occasional gurgle as fluids settled within a cadaver. She could see Lorimer wincing at such sounds, though, as if affronted that a human body was being put through further indignities. It wasn’t as if the man was squeamish, unlike Solly, her husband, who hated even the sight of blood, but Lorimer had a tendency to look further than a mere body and try to visualise what it may have been like when alive. That was his weakness, Rosie thought; an imagination that made him see deeper into things, feel the pain of others.

  ‘I think these marks around his wrists were made from twine,’ she remarked, lifting the man’s left hand and nodding towards his right.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Had a closer look before you came,’ she replied. ‘The striations show a pattern similar to other types of binder twine I’ve seen before.’

  ‘Nothing on his ankles? No binding marks?’

  Rosie looked up, noticing the eagerness in Lorimer’s voice.

  ‘Nope. Think they walked him to the Harelaw Burn?’

  He did not reply but continued to observe her movements carefully, his blue gaze fixed on the man’s partially burned corpse.

  ‘Forensic soil scientist will tell you what was on his shoes,’ Rosie murmured, thinking at once of her friend and sometimes colleague, Professor Lorna Dawson. Lorna had helped in previous cases, though there were other soil scientists here in Glasgow that might be able to offer her particular kind of skills, allowing the substances to tell a story of where the wearer had been in the hours leading up to his death.

  She continued the post-mortem, speaking aloud as each stage of the examination took place, a second pathologist taking note of everything for the record. Should the killer be found then it was a matter of certainty that Rosie would be called as an expert witness for the Crown, giving not just the details of this post-mortem examination but stating her opinion on the various possibilities that she could see from this medical investigation.

  ‘Three knife wounds, one here on his upper arm, maybe a defence wound, another here on his shoulder and the one that undoubtedly killed him,’ Rosie said. ‘Severed the jugular.’

  ‘He struggled,’ Lorimer remarked quietly.

  ‘It looks that way,’ Rosie agreed. ‘If his assailant had been aiming to cut his throat, the other two wounds might suggest that.’

  It was conjecture, of course it was. Impossible to tell which blow had come first, but, as Rosie continued speaking as she worked, Lorimer’s mind created an image of the small, thin man throwing himself this way and that as the killer stabbed with that fatal knife.

  Lorimer left by the back door to retrieve his car and looked up at the entrance to the High Court of Judiciary. It never failed to make him give an ironic smile at the proximity of these two places: the Glasgow City Mortuary car park so close to those columns supporting the rounded portico where criminals and innocent alike entered to be judged. Life and death, he mused, wondering if Rosie Fergusson would one day change into the smart suit she wore to court and walk the few yards across that pale stone pavement to give evidence about the body of the man that had now been returned to a refrigerated cabinet.

  Who was he? Like Derek Carter, there was nothing to identify the victim: no wallet or cards, nothing but the clothes he had been wearing that were even now being sent for examination by a forensic scientist. Painstaking details from so many experts might add up to something, he thought. Traces of soil on the footwear, the type of twine used to restrain him, anything that had been preserved from the attempt to obliterate the man’s remains by fire, an attempt that had failed. Had it been too damp? Had he already fallen into that burn?

  And how terribly strange that it had been DS Douglas Hutton who had found the body. Was that yet another coincidence? Or, and here Lorimer frowned as he sat in his car, was the ex-undercover cop somehow involved in these murders?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Vincent Burns had been a keen golfer, a member of an elite club close to his home, but perhaps he had enjoyed a round with friends at Fereneze Golf Club, the place Hutton had indicated beyond the Harelaw Burn. That thought had led Lorimer here to the Barrhead clubhouse and then across acres of rugged moorland, climbing steeply above the city. Today the sky was pale blue with swiftly shifting clouds and he could see the white peak of Ben Lomond from the hilltop where he stood. It was a popular course, he’d been told, and yes, Mr Burns had visited several times, signed in by a member, Gerry O’Neill. Lorimer had been given O’Neill’s address and telephone number, despite a blustering protest from the club secretary about protecting the privacy of their members.

  Lorimer had changed into his climbing boots before setting out on the course, taking care to avoid any greens. Hutton had given him a rough idea of the route a walker might take from the Barrhead clubhouse over the moor to the Harelaw Burn and so Lorimer had followed it for a while then climbed as high as he could to give himself a good vantage point. From where he stood, he could imagine the passage taken through the golf course and moorland of at least two men, one whose wrists had been bound, the other leading him to his certain death. Uniformed officers were still combing the area for anything that might give them a clue about what had happened, and in particular for a murder weapon that might have been discarded. Wintertime had advantages in that the foliage was thin on the ground and bushes bare of leaves though its big advantage to the killer was the dark days of this season. So far Rosie had given them an indication that it had been the same or similar knife that had been the murder weapon employed in killing Derek Carter. Had Carter been dumped first? Or had the unknown man been murdered here in that secluded spot, giving rise to the idea that Glennifer Braes made a good hiding place for unwanted corpses? It was now almost three weeks since Carter had last been seen alive, but what about this stranger?

  Time of death was still a bit hazy and Rosie had refused to commit herself just yet but hopefully before the day was out, they might have an answer to that particular question.

  Lorimer breathed in the cold air, tilting his face to a watery sun that gave no warmth, then began his descent, looking closely at the path that may have been taken by whoever had led this man to his death.

  Gerry O’Neill was a retired businessman, that was all the golf club secretary had told him, a disdainful sniff suggesting that a mere policeman ought to watch his Ps and Qs when visiting the Fereneze club member. Money doesn’t talk, it swears – wasn’t that what Bob Dylan had written? And there were so many nowadays that measured a man’s success by the noughts on his bank account, as if amassing great wealth were a mark of respect. Well, he’d met good men and some not so good who fell into that category and he would reserve judgement about Mr O’Neill till he met him, Lorimer thought as the Lexus rounded a corner and they arrived at the address he’d been given.

  Thorntonhall was a pleasant little village in South Lanarkshire that had been transformed into an elite location for wealthy residents. Lorimer recalled one of his former bosses who had lived there fuming about the grand older houses being demolished to make way for what he termed ‘modern monstrosities’ but so far, he had not seen any that could be described as ugly. On the contrary, these were impressive well-built homes, probably individually architect designed, unlike so many contemporary estates.

  ‘Some place,’ DS David Giles remarked as they passed yet another palatial property. ‘Lots of money here,’ he added as they rounded the corner of the avenue and headed towards a large modern mansion at the end of a sweeping curve.

  The tyres of the Lexus crunched as he drove slowly across the gravel drive and parked. It was huge, he had to admit, with two wings off the main building, one housing an internal double garage, a trio of pitched roofs giving the whole place a pleasing symmetry. Lorimer had already clocked a separate double garage to the left of the drive and now he noticed the sleek shape of a taupe-coloured Jaguar by the front entrance. The personalised number plate GER0N showed that this was probably Gerry O’Neill’s, another small status symbol that might be a mark of pride or simply a gift for the man who already had everything else of material value. A quick glance showed the usual security of burglar alarm and closed circuit camera; no need to be gated in this neck of the woods, perhaps, when you could see an intruder approaching. Or a senior police officer and his detective sergeant.

  As if he had read Lorimer’s thoughts, a white-haired man appeared at the front door and stood waiting for them at the porch. Lorimer’s first impression of O’Neill was of a short, slightly tubby man whose penetrating gaze and unsmiling mouth reminded him of a particularly irritable science teacher who’d taught him in his teenage years and who’d been known for his dreadful temper. They were not welcome here, was the message that body language was sending out right now.

  ‘Here we go,’ Giles murmured under his breath as he stepped out of the Lexus and joined Lorimer.

  ‘Detective Superintendent.’ Gerry O’Neill shook Lorimer’s hand and nodded as he introduced his companion, hardly sparing a glance at the younger man. ‘Nice set of wheels you’ve got.’ He nodded towards the silver Lexus. ‘Like that particular model, myself, y’know. Had one that did over two hundred thousand when I was younger. Great car.’ O’Neill turned to his visitors as if he had suddenly remembered them. ‘Come in, come in. Far too cold to stand out here,’ he commanded and marched back without another word.

  Lorimer and Giles followed him into the house, the detective sergeant’s eyes widening at the huge reception hall and its massive Christmas tree by the foot of a winding staircase.

  ‘Better come in here,’ O’Neill told them, turning a corner and indicating an open door at the end of a wide corridor. ‘Fire’s on and I suppose you’d like a drink?’ The question was fired over his shoulder, almost but not quite grudgingly as if his manners demanded that he offered refreshments to police officers visiting his home.

  Lorimer dropped a wink at Giles before the detective sergeant could reply.

  ‘That would be very welcome, sir, thank you,’ he said as O’Neill took them into a large drawing room with picture windows overlooking grounds that were more like a private park than a residential garden.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ O’Neill’s gruff accent began to intrigue Lorimer. It was a genuine Glasgow accent, all right, but overlaid with something else. Had he worked overseas? Picked up a different sort of tone to his voice?

  Left to themselves, Lorimer and Giles stood by the window, Giles gazing outside while Lorimer had a careful look at the interior of this room. His trained eye took in the heavy silk drapes, a deep shade of coffee held back with contrasting gold ties, the fabric matching the two three-seater settees and bucket chair that were angled either side of a pale stone fireplace that housed a wood-burning stove. In one corner of the room another Christmas tree was artfully placed, its decorations all different shades of gold and silver, a massive array of gifts beneath, wrapped in shiny dark green paper and tied in gauzy golden ribbons. It was a far cry from his own modest home with the decorations they’d amassed over the years, each one a small reminder of happy times past.

  Was this a happy home? Lorimer wondered, looking around the room. It was a tribute to some expensive interior decorator, he decided at last, wondering once more at his old boss’s remarks. Had some treasured old property stood here years before? Torn down to make way for a rich man to stamp his own mark upon it? Trouble was, so far Lorimer could see nothing in this room that gave a clue to O’Neill’s personality, just the fact that a great deal of money had been spent creating a lovely but impersonal room. Perhaps, he thought, that in itself might be an indication of some sort?

  ‘Here you are.’ O’Neill appeared once again, carrying a tray with three mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits. ‘Instant, all right? Help yourselves to milk and sugar,’ he offered, setting the tray down on a long low table that was by the window.

  ‘Now,’ he said, settling himself on the middle of one of the settees and staring hard at Lorimer, ‘what is this all about?’

  ‘You were a friend of Vincent Burns,’ Lorimer began.

  ‘Correct. Terrible business, just terrible. Surprised you haven’t got someone for that yet,’ O’Neill growled.

  ‘How well did you know Mr Burns?’ Lorimer asked, taking a sip of his black coffee. It might only be instant, good enough to serve to mere coppers, but it was a decent enough coffee.

  ‘Oh, we went back a long way,’ O’Neill admitted. ‘School pals, y’know? Lost touch for years while I was overseas a lot, but we met up again, enjoyed a few rounds of golf. I’m retired now, of course, so I get to play as much as I want whereas poor Vince … ’ He tailed off with a shrug.

  ‘You’re a member of Fereneze Golf Club?’

  O’Neill gave a faint smile and lifted his chin a fraction. ‘I am a member of several clubs, Superintendent. Do you play?’

  Lorimer returned the smile but restrained himself from quoting the old adage about golf being a good walk wasted. ‘No time for that, sir.’

  ‘Too busy catching criminals,’ O’Neill said with a dry laugh. He did not meet Lorimer’s gaze as he spoke the words, however, and that made the detective curious.

  ‘What line of work were you involved in, Mr O’Neill?’

  ‘Oh, import and export. Big deals with oil-related companies. Worked in the Middle East for several years,’ he said, his tone expansive though the statement itself was vague. Deliberately imprecise, so that anyone would fill in the blanks?

  ‘Did you use Bryson’s for any part of your work at all?’

  O’Neill took up his coffee and drank slowly as if considering Lorimer’s question carefully.

  ‘Might have done at one time,’ he conceded. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, we have to ask all sorts of little questions, sir, many of them just routine,’ Lorimer assured him, still keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s face.

  ‘Yes, I think my wife might have consulted Vince about her late mother’s property,’ he said at last. ‘Shall I ask her?’ He turned to look at the door of the drawing room.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ Lorimer said. ‘It is helpful for us to make contact with anyone who knew Mr Burns and if your wife was also a friend … ’ He let the sentence dangle.

  ‘Right.’ O’Neill scowled as he rose from his place by the fireside. ‘I’ll see if she’s available, then, shall I?’

  The door of the drawing room closed behind him and left Lorimer and Giles looking at one another.

  ‘Wouldn’t like to cross him,’ Giles remarked as he picked up a chocolate biscuit from the plate. ‘Seems a bit prickly about us being here, don’t you think?’