She brought her chin up. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Aye, and no spitting in it either.’ Steel made shooing motions. ‘Well, go on then.’

Chalmers puckered her lips for a moment, as if she was about to say something, then turned and marched off in the direction of the chip shop, back straight, arms swinging at her sides. Left, right, left, right, left, right. . .

Steel settled her bum down on a garden wall and puffed at her fake fag. ‘Right, sunshine, time for you to sing for your supper. What happened? ’

PC Duncan took a deep breath, then sat up. His face was pale and shiny, like the belly of a frog, greeny-purple bags under his eyes. ‘I’ve never. . .’ He swallowed. ‘I mean, they make you go to a post mortem, but. . .’

‘Your first real body? ’

‘The smell. . .’

Logan flipped open his notebook. ‘When did you get the call? ’

‘I was out looking for a missing Renault Clio. House has been vacant for about eight months, local estate agent’s handling the sale. Neighbours phoned the station complaining about the smell coming from the place.’ He shuddered. ‘Got there and there’s no sign of forced entry, so I go down the estate agent’s and get the key, come back and. . .’ He puffed out his cheeks. ‘He was in the kitchen.’

‘Victim? ’

‘Male, IC-one . . . maybe. Difficult to tell. . . Face all battered, cuts and stab marks over his body.’ PC Duncan’s head went back between his knees. ‘Oh God. . .’

Steel examined the end of her pretend cigarette. ‘Tortured? ’

‘They staked him out on the lino. There’s blood everywhere: on the floor, on the walls. And the flies. . . God, the place is black with them.’

Logan wrote it down. ‘What about the neighbours? ’

Duncan raised his greasy face. ‘Mr and Mrs Morris, they’re in their eighties. He’s in a wheelchair. Don’t think they did it.’

Steel blew a raspberry. ‘He means did they see anything, you divot.’

‘They keep themselves to themselves.’

‘Pfff. . .’ She stood, stretched, then leaned on the roof of the patrol car. ‘Someone up there sodding hates me. We’ve no’ had anything like this for what, two, three years? And soon as I’m in charge of CID, bang: necklacing, skeletons, and some poor sod tortured to death. Could they no’ have waited till Finnie gets back? ’

Logan sooked the salt and grease from his fingertips, then stuffed the cardboard box back in the plastic bag it came in. ‘Fiscal’s here.’

Steel crunched through a bit of batter. ‘How can they no’ wrap fish and chips in paper any more? Used to love that – the smell of hot fat and sharp vinegar and warm newsprint. That’s your golden days of childhood right there.’

The Procurator Fiscal’s Mercedes purred to a halt behind a grubby Transit van with ‘MANKY MYSTERY MACHINE’ finger-painted into the grime.