Inside were two sheets of paper tagged with little yellow Post-its marked ‘SIGN HERE’ with an arrow pointing to the relevant part of the form. Logan’s pulse thumped in his ears, pins and needles sparking along his forearms. ‘Holy mother of crap. . .’

‘I beg your pardon? ’

‘I. . .’ He licked his lips. ‘Got to go, something’s. . . Bye.’ He hung up. Put the phone down with all the other rubbish from his jacket pockets. Cleared his throat. Blinked at the sheet of paper in his hand. The words were still there:

I HAMISH ALEXANDER SELKIRK MOWAT (Mains of Clerkhill, Grandhome, Aberdeen, AB22 8AV), being of sound mind, do hereby nominate and appoint LOGAN MCRAE (23 Persley Park Caravan Park, Aberdeen, AB21 9NS) as sole executor for my last will and testament, and further grant him CONTINUING and WELFARE POWER of ATTORNEY. . .

Oh dear Jesus. No. No chance. No chance in hell.

Logan tore the brown envelope open and tipped the contents into his hand. It was a cheque for thirty thousand pounds.

‘Little shite. . .’

‘. . .cheeky bastard gave me a cheque for thirty thousand pounds! Can you believe it? The sodding nerve of—’

‘Oh boo hoo.’ Samantha yawned at him down the phone. ‘Are you seriously moaning because someone gave you thirty grand? I mean, really? ’

Union Street sparkled in the sunshine, mica chips in the granite making it look like someone had sneezed glitter all over the place. Traffic thundered across the junction to Rosemount Place, buses and taxis played chicken in the middle of the box junction.

Probably better waiting for the green man.

‘I can’t take—’

‘You could finally get the flat finished – move out of the caravan and back into an actual house.’

‘Thought you loved that caravan.’

The pedestrian crossing bleeped and Logan marched across, dodging his way through a gaggle of middle-aged men in suits bragging about how much they were going to drink tonight.

‘I do. But you’ve made it smell all fusty.’

‘Of course, you know what’ll happen if I’m an executor for his will, don’t you? I’ll be a target for anyone who thinks they deserve a slice of the Wee Hamish empire: drug dealers, thugs, loan sharks, protection racketeers, people traffickers, smugglers, pimps. . .’

‘When was the last time you opened the curtains and let a bit of air in? ’

‘Reuben’s going to love that. He. . .’ Logan screwed his face shut for a heartbeat. Bloody hell: that explained the random punch on the nose that morning. Reuben knew about the will. Brilliant. Thirty grand and a death sentence.

Right onto the cobbles of Diamond Street down the side of KFC, past the sandwich bar and the hairdresser’s.

‘Logan? ’

‘All right, all right, I’ll open the windows.’