‘And it wouldn’t hurt you to give the place a scrub as well. There’s a mouldy patch in the bathroom that’s beginning to look a bit like Shakespeare. I don’t want Shakespeare watching me in the shower, it’s perverse.’

‘He’s giving me power of attorney too. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? ’

‘Do I need to boo-hoo you again? ’

Left onto Lindsay Street, leaving the cobbles for a Frankenstein’s patchwork of tarmac and potholes.

‘You’re getting as bad as Steel.’

A pause. ‘You take that back, Logan McRae, or there’ll be no kinky bedtime fun for you ever again!’

Then right onto Golden Square. Tall granite buildings faced out onto what was the bastard child of a roundabout and a car park. Rows of cars ringed a wrought-iron fence with more of them on the inside, facing out. Then another row behind that, circling the statue in the middle. The handful of trees dotted around the place looked in need of a decent drink.

‘Logan, I’m warning you.’

‘All right, I take it back.’ Sigh. ‘And I’ll do something about the shower.’

‘That’s better. Now run along and see your lawyer, it’s nearly teatime here, and they’ve been boiling the cauliflower since last Thursday in my honour. Don’t want to miss that.’ Then she hung up on him.

The receptionist scowled up at him from behind her mahogany fortifications. The glasses balanced on the end of her nose had little wings on the top corners. They went with her purple cardigan. ‘Our office hours are nine to five. If you wish to make an appointment to see Mr Moir-Farquharson, I can—’

‘Is he in or not? ’

The smile looked forced, making tiny wrinkles around her narrowed eyes. She glanced sideways at a door on the far side of the room. ‘Mr Moir-Farquharson is with a client and isn’t to be. . . Hey: you can’t go in there!’

Logan hauled the door open. ‘What the hell are you playing at? ’

Sunlight gilded the wood-panelled room, glinting off the bald head of a shaven gorilla in an expensive suit with ‘HATE’ tattooed on one set of knuckles and ‘PAIN’ on the other. Scars knitted their way over the back of his scalp, like cracks in an eggshell. He didn’t look around as Logan barged in, just sat there, silent as a slab of meat.

Sitting behind the wide oak desk, Hissing Sid sighed and closed his eyes – pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Mrs Jefferies!’

Logan shook a fistful of brown envelope at him. ‘Attempted bribery of a police officer is an offence under the Criminal Justice, Scotland—’

‘How many times do I have to tell you: it’s not a bribe.’