“I don’t know. Bit of furniture. Five legs, or maybe feet.”

“You think something’s been taken out of the room?” Sinead asked.

“Maybe. Wouldn’t be easy with that bloody hatch, though,” Logan said. “Could be old—might have been done months ago, in which case it’s irrelevant—or it might be recent. In which case, it isn’t.”

“The owner know anything about it?” Sinead asked.

“No. Not that he was letting on, anyway.”

Tyler and Sinead both looked off in the direction Rufus Boyle had gone in his beaten-up old Land Rover after Logan had finished questioning him. “You suspect him, boss?”

“I suspect everyone, son,” Logan replied. He swung back a few inches, much to the dismay of the supporting chains, and stared at the ground beneath his feet, lost in thought. A drip of rain formed at the tip of his nose, wobbled briefly, then fell with a plop into a puddle below.

Tyler and Sinead swapped looks, neither one quite sure what to say, or whether to even say anything at all.

“He says he didn’t know who Archie Tatties is, either,” Logan eventually stated. “The owner, I mean. Boyle. Mind you, he was probably out bloody… grouse shooting or something back then. No’ sitting home eating fish fingers in front of the telly.”

The DCI stood up, and the entire frame of the swings gave an audible sigh of relief. He stole another look at the house, turned to regard the assembled Uniforms who were all trying to look busy while doing precisely fuck all, then ran a hand down his face, wiping away the worst of the rainwater.

“Right, let’s head back up the road,” he said. “Get a cup of tea and a JJ’s inside us, and see where we’re at.”

“Sounds like a plan, boss,” Tyler said.

“There’s still the cleaner in the station at Glencoe,” Sinead said, and Logan groaned.

“Shite. Forgot about her.” He sighed. “Right, well, you two head up the road, I’d better go and talk to her.”

“No, it’s fine. I was going to say, Hamza’s there already,” Sinead continued. “He’s talking to her.”

Logan’s demeanour lightened. Not by much, but a little. “Nice one. That’s good,” he said. “How’s he getting on, do we know?”

“Haven’t heard yet, boss,” Tyler said. He shrugged. “But I’m sure he’s doing fine.”

* * *

Hamza sat at one end of the table, his head moving from side to side like he was watching a particularly fast-paced tennis match. Judging by the expression on his face, though, he had no idea who was winning the match, or even what the rules were.