‘Rennie, you’re. . .’ Logan closed his mouth. Sagged a little in his seat as the Punto finally made it over the crest of the hill. It wasn’t really fair, was it: passing on the bollocking, just because Steel had had a go at him? ‘Sorry. I know. Just . . . tell me where we are with it.’

‘No one’s talking. All the victims say they fell down the stairs and stuff. Even the guy with two broken ankles won’t blab.’

‘Still all Chinese? ’

‘Latest one’s Korean. Makes it four Oriental males in the last month and a half.’

‘Well . . . do what you can.’

‘You heading back to the ranch? ’

‘Going to see a man about a drugs war.’

‘Yeah.’ Another yawn. Then a whoosing gurgle. ‘Oops. I just. . . Emma must’ve . . . em . . . flushed the washing machine? ’

The young woman in the nurse’s uniform scowled up at him, one hand on the door knob. ‘I don’t like this. It’s late. You shouldn’t be here.’ Her eyebrows met in the middle, drawing a thick dark line through her curdled-porridge face, as if trying to emphasize the razor-straight fringe of her bottle-blonde hair. Small, but wide with it, arms like Popeye on steroids. Hard. Shoulders brushing the tastefully striped wallpaper of the hallway.

Logan shrugged. ‘He said it was OK, didn’t he? ’

‘I don’t like it.’ She swung the door open, then stood to the side, face puckered around two big green eyes. Her finger waved an inch from Logan’s nose. ‘I’m warning you: if you upset Mr Mowat. . .’

A thin, shaky voice came from inside: a mix of public school and Aberdonian brogue, rough as gravel. ‘Chloe, is that Logan? ’

The waggling finger poked Logan in the chest, her voice a low growl. ‘Just watch it.’ Then she turned on a smile. It would have been nice to say it transformed her face, but it didn’t. ‘He’s just arrived, Mr Mowat.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there, show him in.’

The room must have been at least thirty foot long. A wall of glass looked out on a garden lurking in the darkness, the occasional bush and tree picked out by coloured spotlights. Wee Hamish Mowat nudged the joystick on the arm of his wheelchair and rolled across the huge Indian rug. His pale skin was mottled with liver spots and looked half a size too big for his skeletal frame, the hair on his head so fine that every inch of scalp was visible through the grey wisps. An IV drip was hooked onto the chair, the plastic tube disappearing into the back of his wrist. It wobbled as he reached out a trembling hand.

Logan took it and shook. It was hot, as if something burned deep beneath the skin. ‘Hamish, how have you been? ’

‘Like a buggered dog. You? ’

‘Getting there.’