‘We’re getting a visit tomorrow from the National Police Improvement Authority. Apparently our necklacing case is going nowhere. Boardroom, half two in the afternoon, attendance is mandatory.’

Just what they needed. ‘Who they sending? ’

‘Who do you think: a bunch of cockshites from Strathclyde up to point out the sodding obvious and tell us how to do our jobs.’ She gave her cleavage one last dig, then puckered her lips around the fake cigarette, sending a little puff of steam up into the room. ‘Well, I’m no’ giving up that easy. Tell everyone I want their arses in the briefing room at quarter to eight sharp. And I mean everyone. This case isn’t turning into a runner, understand? I want its bloody legs hacked off before our Weegie visitors get here. I want it like Stumpy McStumperton, so we can tell them to turn round and sod off back from whence they sodding came.’

Yeah . . . that was going to happen.

Logan looked up at the door. ‘So come on then, why did you barge in here? ’

Steel sniffed. ‘Sometimes, when you’re all out, I like to rummage through your desks and see what lies you’re hiding from me.’

Good job he still had the form about being an executor for Wee Hamish Mowat and the dirty big cheque in his pocket then.

Steel pulled a face. ‘God’s knickers, the place is hoaching.’

O’Donoghues was a barn of a place off Justice Mill Lane, the walls painted a mucal shade of shamrock green. As if all the Guinness and Beamish memorabilia wasn’t enough of a giveaway. The crowd was three deep at the bar, the tables around the outside already taken.

An all-girl six-piece band crowded the stage: electric guitar, bass, fiddle, drums, accordion, and a lead singer belting out the Stereophonics’s ‘Have a Nice Day’. They were good. Good, but loud.

Logan frowned around him. ‘Could we not go somewhere quieter? ’

‘Don’t be so wet.’

‘Remember, I’m only staying for the one. Got to go up the hospital.’

‘Wah, wah, wah. Get us a table.’ She stuck out her elbows and waded for the bar.

‘It’s packed, how am I supposed to. . .’ But she wasn’t listening, she was barging through the crowd like a wrinkly icebreaker that stank of cigarette smoke.

Well, maybe someone would be sodding off soon? Then he could nick their table. He did a slow three-sixty, staring through the mass of bodies . . . then stopped. Someone at a table crowded with empty glasses was standing up and waving at him.