It’s psychological,’ Wheeler lied. ‘And there’s a game tonight. Don’t want to go out smelling of death; it’s not good for the reputation.’ ‘I’d have thought just turning up, they’d be overjoyed. Dead or alive. Who’re they playing?’ ‘Plastic Whistle.’ ‘Any chance they might scrape a win?’ Ross shifted uncomfortably on his seat. Stared ahead, concentrated on the road. Said nothing. ‘Too awkward a question?’ She leaned over, pointing. ‘Look at the state of you. You have gone and got yourself a wee pet, haven’t you? Are you that lonely?’ She picked the hairs from his jacket collar. ‘Dog hair.’ ‘I’m just looking after a dog for a few days, that’s all.’ ‘Poor mutt.’ ‘Does all right.’ ‘You’re never there.’ ‘Old Mary across the road takes it round the block. Feeds it too.’ ‘You’re a chancer, Ross – never met a bigger skiver.’ They drove towards Glasgow Cross. ‘Any chance we could have a quick coffee and a bun first?
