“Oh. Them. God. Aye,” said Geoff, brightening. “They were good, weren’t they? That was proper comedy. None of that ‘woke’ rubbish that you get now.”

Logan gave a non-committal shrug. He’d been maybe five or six years old when the Neeps and Tatties double-act was in its prime, and their broad slapstick and catchphrase-based routines had seemed hilarious at the time. He had a nagging suspicion though, that were any of it to be viewed through more sophisticated eyes, it would be revealed to be a right old bag of shite.

“Why do you ask?” Geoff wondered.

Logan gestured to the house. “One of the victims is Archie Tatties.”

“Bollocks it is! Seriously?” Geoff retorted, almost choking on his disbelief. “The Archie Tatties?”

“Certainly looks like him,” Logan confirmed.

Palmer tutted. “Doesn’t mean it’s him. There’s probably hundreds of people that look like Archie Tatties. Thousands.”

Logan raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“Well, OK, maybe not thousands…” Palmer admitted, then he spat out a, “Finally!” as a masked-up Shona appeared in the cottage doorway, her disposable gloves and apron both flecked with spots of blood.

Logan set off to meet her, while Palmer rounded up the troops.

She was shaken, he could tell by the way she looked to the sky and blew out the air she’d been holding in for too long.

He couldn’t blame her. However familiar you were with death, however comfortable you thought you’d become with it, it still had the power to catch you off guard. To floor you with a sneaky gut-punch out of nowhere.

And kids would hit you hardest of all.

“You alright?”

Shona smiled weakly. “Had better mornings,” she replied.

“You need a minute, or…?”

“I need a coffee. Preferably an Irish one,” Shona told him.

Logan glanced back at Palmer and his squad. They were now marching up the driveway, Palmer’s wee legs scurrying along as he struggled to make sure he was leading the way.

“This lot are going to be a while yet,” the DCI said. “Everything seems under control here. I’ll buy you that coffee and you can fill me in.”

“Deal,” Shona said. They stepped in opposite directions, letting Palmer’s crew flow between them like a river, and watched until the last of the paper suits had vanished inside.

“Give me a minute. I’ll meet you at the car,” Logan said, handing her his keys. “There’s a pub just up the road. We can go there.”

Shona took the keys, tapped her forehead in salute, then set off to find Logan’s Beamer in amongst all the other vehicles currently clogging up the car park.