‘You’d rather wait till he hurts someone? ’ Insch helped himself to some carrots.

Logan closed his eyes for a moment. All these years and Insch was still manipulating him. ‘I’m not promising anything, OK? ’

‘His name’s Robbie Whyte, twenty-five, lives in Inverurie with his mum.’ Insch hauled himself off the car and checked his watch. ‘Time’s up. I’ve got a meeting with Trading Standards in five minutes – haven’t even finished principal photography and some scumbag’s already flogging counterfeit Witchfire merchandise – then it’s the council historian we use as a witchcraft consultant. Then some arsehole journalist, then a competition winner. . . And at some point, I’ve got a film to make. Make sure you hand your passes back in at the gate when you leave.’

‘Right.’

Insch stalked off a couple of steps, then stopped, with his back still turned. ‘If . . . there’s anything you need, give me a call and I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Lying bastards swore to me there was nothing else we needed to know about Agnes.’ Logan put his foot down as soon as the car’s bonnet was level with the forty-miles-per-hour sign, overtaking the bus in the inside lane. ‘How are we supposed to—’

‘Blah, blah, blah, life’s tough, people lie.’ Steel cracked open the passenger window, letting in the dual-carriageway roar of Auchmill Road. ‘Get over it.’ She pulled out a packet of cigar-ettes and jiggled one out. ‘Weird seeing Insch again, isn’t it? All thin and bony and floppy like that. . .’

‘We’re taking a detour. Agnes Garfield’s mum and dad have got some explaining to do.’

‘Bet if you stuck one of them garage air pumps up his bum you could inflate him like a beach ball.’ She sparked the cigarette with a Zippo, then clunked one foot up on the dashboard and had a scratch. ‘You know, it’s just like old times: you, me, Inschy McFattypants. . . Except now we’d have to call him McSkinnypants.’ A grin. ‘I know: McFloppypants, he’ll like that.’

Five minutes later they were in deepest darkest Northfield. Logan hauled on the handbrake. The sound of shrieking children came from the other side of the high school wall, interspersed with shouted commands and laughter.

Steel sooked on the last nub of her cigarette, slouched so far down her seat she was nearly in the footwell. ‘You sure about this? ’

‘They lied.’

‘Aye, I know that. But what does spanking them for it get you? ’

‘What else are they lying about? ’ He climbed out into the warm afternoon and called Chalmers: ‘I need you to run me a quick PNC on Agnes Garfield’s parents.’

It sounded as if she was in the middle of eating something. ‘Give me just a second. . .’ A slurp. Then the clacking of fingers on keyboard. ‘Did you see the results from the lab? ’

‘Can we just focus on—’