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his daughter, Lisa home from a club.
It was ironic, really. After this latest murder he should have
asked the patrol to follow his son Robbie home instead. Either
child would hit the roof, if they found out. Having a policeman
father had never been easy. When Lisa complained he was over
protective, he could only say, ‘I’m a man. I know how men
think.’
    It was part of
his job to climb into sick minds. If his family had been able to
see what he was thinking half the time, Bill suspected they would
have packed up and left him years ago.
    When he’d told
Rhona MacLeod that he thought the latest victim was a regular rent
boy, though higher class than usual, he’d been wrong. The boy
wasn’t known in the Glasgow rent scene at all and it was beginning
to look as if he couldn’t have been a runaway. If he had been on
the game, it couldn’t have been for long.
    Just long
enough to end up dead.
    Bill lifted the
mug and took a mouthful of the cold liquid. Most people would have
baulked at the taste, but he liked his coffee cold. He ran the
sweet liquid round his mouth and stared at the photograph on his
desk. Most photo shots taken in booths were done for a laugh. Two
or three faces pressed together in a moment of hilarity, eyes
reddened by the flash.
    This photograph
wasn’t like that. As Bill lifted it from the table and cradled it
in his hand he remembered the Sergeant’s comment on the likeness to
Dr MacLeod.
    The boy had
positioned himself carefully for the camera. He was smartly dressed
in a buttoned up shirt with a small collar and a dark blue jacket.
His thick and curly hair had refused to be tamed for the picture
and it flopped over his eyes, making him look very vulnerable. And
there was no mistaking it. The set of the jaw, the neat nose, those
eyes. The resemblance to Rhona was inescapable.
    Bill leaned
back in the old leather chair he hadn’t let them throw out when
they re-furnished his office. In this chair he could think, even if
the Super thought it screwed up the décor.
    He felt sure
that this was no regular rent boy. He hadn’t looked streetwise,
trussed up in death in that sordid little flat, and he didn’t look
streetwise alive in this photo.
    Why would he
have wanted a photograph like that? He thought about his own son.
Sixteen years old and not half as civilised looking. Why would
Robbie want such a formal picture? Maybe for an identity card?
    Bill sat up and
pressed the button on his desk. After a few insistent buzzes, the
door opened and DC Clarke stuck her head round.
    ‘Check the
universities and colleges, Janice. Ask if any of their students
have gone awol.’
    ‘You think he
might have been a student stuck for cash?’
    They’d already
cautioned a student newspaper for advertising jobs in a local sauna
to ‘willing young female students needing extra cash’. The editor
had withdrawn the advert but was unrepentant. As far as he was
concerned, it was a legit way to pay for an education.
    ‘Go and see the
editor of the student paper that ran the sleazy advert. See if
they’ve had any requests to place adverts for willing young
boys.’
    Janice raised
her eyebrows in distaste.
    ‘And get Dr
MacLeod on the phone for me. Maybe she’s found something that might
help confirm this line of enquiry.’
    But Dr MacLeod
was not available. ‘Chrissy says she left two hours ago and hasn’t
come back yet. Went to meet some mysterious man with a sexy
voice.’
    ‘Constable...
’
    ‘Chrissy’s
words Sir, not mine. They’ll get back to us later about any
results.’
    It didn’t
matter what day it was or what time of day, the Kelvingrove Art
Gallery and Museum was always busy. This morning there was a class
in from Glasgow School of Art. The students were clustered on and
around the south steps leading up from the main hall, sketch pads
on their knees. The grand hall was beautiful, Rhona thought, each
layer a work of art in itself. A series of statues gazed over the
first floor balcony; smooth