Although the clock was ticking towards lunchtime, a morning mist clung to the grass around the cottage, covering it in a feathery blanket of white, and Logan half expected to hear the howl of a werewolf echoing from far off in the distance.

Polis vehicles had taken over the Three Sisters car park that lay back up the track, at the edge of the A82. Uniformed constables were directing traffic—a process which largely involved shaking their heads and making irate gestures at any drivers who started to slow down and indicate they were turning in.

The car park was usually jam-packed with tourist vehicles even this early in the season, so there was quite a lot of head-shaking going on, as well as the odd shouted instruction to, “Keep moving.”

You’d have thought the wall of flashing blue lights and the cordon tape would’ve been enough of an indicator that the car park wasn’t currently open for business, but if Logan had learned anything about the general public over the years it was that half of them were idiots, half of them were chancers, and neither side was good at taking a telling.

Logan had been expecting Sinead and Tyler to show up by now, but there was no sign yet. Traffic was moving slowly in both directions, thanks to an endless parade of rubbernecking bastards, so chances were they were just running late.

Plus, if past experience was anything to go by, Sinead would likely have had to stop multiple times to allow Tyler to throw up at the side of the road.

After a bit of persuasion, Detective Superintendent Mitchell had relented and allowed DI Forde to leave the Inverness station and set up base in Fort William for the second time in as many weeks. Ben’s health was still a concern to everyone but the DI himself, who insisted he was in the best shape of his life, despite his newfound dependency on heart pills and throat sprays.

Hamza should be driving him down, once they’d picked up Dave Davidson, who would be handling Exhibits and providing support in the office.

None of the buggers were here now, though, and despite his distaste for gossip, Logan was itching to talk about the man on the floor in the living room.

“She’s still not out,” Palmer said, sighing heavily to make his displeasure clear.

“I can see that, Geoff,” Logan replied. He tutted, annoyed at himself for even considering what he was about to do, then swivelled to face the other man. “Here, you remember Neeps and Tatties?”

Surrounded by its elasticated paper hood, the perfect circle of Geoff Palmer’s face that was currently visible stared blankly back at the DCI.

“What, the vegetables?”

“No. The comedians. Off the telly,” Logan said. “Where’s the haggis?”