Shona was studying something purple and wobbly on a set of scales when he entered, and Logan briefly contemplated pulling a crisp about-turn and walking straight out again. He forced his size thirteens to stand their ground, though, despite the sickly stench that permeated the room and made a mockery of his paper mask.

“Oh, hello!” Shona called over to him. “You’re earlier than I thought. I’m still elbow deep.” She adjusted the scales a little, and the purple thing wobbled like half-set jelly.

Logan swallowed. “So I see.”

“Want to wait out in the office? I’ll be about another hour here,” Shona said. Despite her mask, he saw her smiling. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay…”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Logan said. “Far be it from me to get in your way.”

He’d seen enough bodies not to be too put-out by their contents, but he didn’t share Shona’s fondness or fascination for all the more grisly parts of the post-mortem process. Still, he didn’t much fancy sitting out there with Ricketts for an hour, either.

Fortunately, he had a third option, although it was arguably even less pleasant a prospect than the other two.

“I’ll shoot off and be back in an hour or so,” he said, stealing a quick timecheck from the clock on the mortuary wall. “I, eh, I think I owe someone an apology.”

* * *

Bob Hoon stood in his hallway, shiny with sweat and reeking of booze, his face a masterclass in utter contempt.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t McFuckface Forget-Me-Not,” he spat, giving the detective on his doorstep a slow, deliberate look up and down. “Here to fucking gloat, are we?”

“No, Bob, I—”

“Cracking reference you sent, by the way. Fucking Grade A, ten out of ten. Glowing it was. Bring a tear to a fucking glass eye, so it would,” Hoon said, then he rattled his knuckles on the side of his head like he was knocking on a door. “Wait. No. Hold on a fucking minute. No, it wasn’t, because you didn’t take your maw’s clunge-smelling finger out of your fat, useless arse long enough to write me one. Did you?”

“Sorry, Bob. No. I meant to, but we got a shout. Family of four. Home invasion.”

“Oh, and I suppose that’s more fucking important, is it?”

“Well… aye.”

Hoon tutted, but offered no counterargument. “Fine. Fuck’s sake. Fine,” he said. “Didn’t need your help, anyway. Got the job on my own. A better one, actually.”

Logan managed a thin smile. “Great. When do you start?”

“Whenever I like. Manager seems pretty open to me doing whatever I want.”

“Right. Right. And that’s… at Tesco?”

Hoon’s face flashed red. For once, it was not due to rage. Or not solely due to rage, at least.