“But we’ve got four train tickets, and the booking was for four people only, two adults, two kids. I also did a quick Google search of Mr Tatties. He’s got three kids of his own, all adults. He remarried a couple of years back, and his new wife has two girls.”

“The two in the house,” Sinead reasoned.

“Aye. No other kids. Certainly none young enough to be in a cot,” Logan said. “I asked the owner if he’s had families with babies staying recently, and he reckons about three in the past couple of months.”

“That’s probably it, then,” said Tyler.

Logan nodded. “Aye. That’s probably it,” he agreed.

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold on just a minute,” said Ben. “Mr Tatties?”

Logan frowned, then glanced from Ben to Hamza and Dave. “Shite. Did we not say? The victim. One of them, I mean. He’s Archie Tatties.”

While neither Hamza nor Dave’s expression flickered so much as an iota, Ben’s face practically spasmed in shock. “What, as in Neeps and Tatties?”

“Aye.”

“As in…” Ben cupped a hand at the side of his mouth, “…‘Where’s the haggis?’ That Archie Tatties?”

“The very same.”

The DI leaned back in his chair. “Bloody Nora!”

“Eh… who’s Archie Tatties when he’s at home?” asked Hamza.

Ben sat forward again. “What? Archie Tatties. Neeps and Tatties. ‘Where’s the haggis?’”

Hamza looked between both his superior officers. “Aye, you’re just… You’re just saying the same things again.”

“We don’t know who you’re talking about, boss,” Tyler said, lending his sergeant some backup.

“Aye, you do!” Ben insisted. He cupped his hands around his mouth again and inhaled. Sinead butted in before he had a chance to start bellowing.

“Saying, ‘Where’s the haggis?’ again isn’t going to help, sir,” she said.

“Here. I’ve Googled them,” Dave announced, holding up his phone to show a photograph of two men dressed in shiny black suits.

It looked like some sort of promotional image, although quite what it was meant to be promoting was any bugger’s guess.

One of the men—a skinny fella with a face like a startled tortoise—held a couple of turnips in front of him like they were women’s breasts. The other, much heavier-set man with a thick moustache and a head of permed hair, had fashioned his own makeshift tits from a couple of small potatoes, and was enviously side-eyeing his much more impressively endowed partner, who was grinning down the lens of the camera like both their lives depended on it.

“What were they, bawdy greengrocers?” Hamza asked.

“Comedians it says here,” Dave replied. “Back in the eighties.”

“Before our time,” Tyler said. “That explains why we’ve never heard of them.”