“She’s just doing her job properly, Geoff,” Logan said. He didn’t turn to look at the Scene of Crime team leader. He wasn’t worth the neck movement.

“Doing her job slowly, more like. It’s bloody freezing out here,” Geoff grumbled.

“Maybe go and sit in your van,” Logan suggested, and he did his best to keep the hopeful note from his voice.

Palmer tutted and gestured to the eight or nine white-suited figures currently picking their way with great care around the edges of the driveway, gazes fixed on the grass. “Can’t, can I? I’ve got to supervise this lot.”

He didn’t seem to be doing much supervising, Logan thought, but he chose not to say anything for fear of encouraging further conversation.

“It’s freezing out here, though,” Geoff pointed out once again. He shivered, presumably for emphasis. “It’s alright for you, you can put on a big coat. You think this shit is windproof?” He tugged on the wrist of his paper suit, then thrust his arm in Logan’s direction. “Have a feel of that.”

Logan stared at the offered fabric sample. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, then he returned his attention to the house.

It was the sort of house that popped up on postcards—a quaint little stone cottage with whitewashed walls and three little windows in the roof to let light into the converted loft space. Local Uniform had checked up there when they’d first secured the house, then retreated outside to avoid contaminating the scene any further.

They were learning, he was pleased to note.

An old outbuilding at the back of the house was apparently locked, though the door appeared rotten enough that a stern look might be enough to knock it off its hinges. Between the buildings, a wooden frame had been built, and two swings had been hung from it. Judging by their condition, they were a much newer addition—a couple of years old, maybe less.

The house was fine—nothing too fancy—but the location? Well, that was something else entirely.

Logan had always had a fondness for Glen Coe. There were a couple of points on the journey up the road from Glasgow that he always looked forward to. One of these was just north of Crianlarich, as you crested the hill and were presented with miles of open space ending in distant, snow-capped peaks.

The second was here, where mountains and river met, and the sky always matched the colour of your mood.

Today was no different. The house stood at the foot of the middlemost mountain of the Three Sisters, one of the area’s most recognisable natural landmarks. Brooding black clouds had taken root above the rocky peaks, casting them and the gullies between them into deep pools of shadow.