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was coming for her too. It could be a few months off yet but when it came she’d know all about it. Arbogast felt tired. Too many times down this road. Chris Guthrie sat and said nothing. That was his role. To nod and give non-verbal support – that was what the training said anyway; whatever that meant.
    “Dead,” It was the one word Lorna wanted to run from, “What do you mean?”
    “It looks like he’d been sleeping rough. His body was found under a bridge in Glasgow Green early this morning.
    “But how can you be sure?”
    “We identified him from his records. Believe me Mrs McMahon I know this is a difficult time.”
    “But how can this...”
    Leona stepped in to help her mother out, “We haven’t seen him for three days. We’ve been worried.”
    “Had this been reported?”
    “What? Eh no, he did that sometimes.”
    “So it wasn’t unusual for him to go missing?”
    Lorna was coming round a little, needed more in the way of facts, “What happened to him?”
    “We don’t know. He was injured. An autopsy will be carried out in due course. We’ll know for sure in the next couple of days.”
    “Was he killed?”
    “We don’t know.”
    “You think he did it to himself? No way,” Lorna was angry. Horace wouldn’t do that. He knew they needed him. If they didn’t come through this as a team how could they survive? “Horace was no quitter. And I know your face. You were involved in that terror case. I saw your face on the TV. Why would a murder cop be looking into this if it was a suspected suicide?”
    “Mrs McMahon.” Chris Guthrie had broken character, Arbogast had taken on too much and the conversation was in danger of getting away from him, “We don’t know right now. The force is busy with the Games preparations. We all need to help where we can. We need to ask if there was any reason your husband would have come into harm’s way?”
    There was silence. The McMahon’s had always been confident they could solve any problem, beat all comers, but in the last few minutes that certainty had been crushed. They knew what had happened. They knew there was nothing they could do to change it. They knew that they had brought the problem down on themselves.
     

12
     
     
    Back in 2013
     
    Ron Semple saw himself as a business man; everyone else thought he was a bit of a prick. If anyone asked he’d tell them he worked in finance, which was true, up to a point. Ron Semple was a loan shark and right now business was good. The Government was doing its bit, and with every fresh benefit cut more people were turning to him for extra help. If Government policy wanted people to do more with less, who was he to argue?
    He used to work from home but things had picked up so he’d rented an office on Duke Street; nothing fancy, used to be a Chinese takeaway and it still looked like one. All he’d done was strip out the counter and put in a desk. It was all he needed to look legit; most of his time was spent on the road, although more people were starting to come to him.
    The alarm on the door rang. He’d been out the back making tea but the front of the shop was on camera. He scanned the monitor. Too early for my meeting, so who have we got this time? It was a man; not much to look at. Probably a punter. Let’s hook the fucker in for the long haul.
    He breezed through to his desk still wiping wet hands on a tea towel, “Hello there, how can I help you today?” Make him feel big, important. It won’t last for long so enjoy it while you can.
    “I’m looking for Ron Semple.”
    Ron was well known, and he wasn’t buying the green around the gills routine. I wonder how much this one’s going to ask for. “ At your service, but you have me at a disadvantage.”
    The man took his hands from his pockets. He was wearing threadbare jeans and a David Bowie t-shirt, obviously more interested in comfort than style. The jeans were stained, another no-hoper.
    “I’m sorry, my name’s Horace McMahon, live up