The slates are warm beneath her buttocks, the heat seeping through her jeans and into her bones. Rowan leans back against the roof, legs dangling over the edge as the sun sinks towards the horizon. It’s nearly nine, but the burnt-fat scent of barbecuing flesh coils through the air from the massive steading development hidden behind the house, mingling with the sharp emerald stain of freshly mown grass.

A fat pigeon croooow-crooooows from the overgrown beech hedge. Somewhere in the distance a dog barks.

The world is back in its place.

She sucks on her pipe. . . Nothing. The weed’s dead in the bowl, so she sparks her Zippo and puts the flame to it again, drawing the smoke deep inside her and holding it there like the Holy Spirit. Calming the turmoil. Settling the waters.

She has done a good thing today, released a tortured soul into the warmth of God’s embrace.

A confession.

Repentance.

Acceptance.

Rapture.

Release.

A grin spreads itself across her face, pulling her cheeks tight. She has lit a fire in God’s name today, and it will burn for all eternity.

Chapter 22

22

Steel’s smile grew another inch. She licked her lips and waggled her eyebrows. ‘You sure you’re no’ wanting in for a nightcap? ’

Chalmers shook her head, backing away from Logan’s manky Fiat Punto. ‘Er . . . no. No thanks. I’m good. I’ll just . . . walk home from here. Need the exercise.’ And she was off, marching down the street, glancing back over her shoulder as if she was afraid they were going to start chasing her.

Logan clunked the car door shut. ‘Do you have to do that? ’

Steel hauled up her trousers. ‘What? I was being hospitable.’

‘No: you were being creepy.’

‘You say potato. . .’ She turned and lumbered up the path towards her house. Chez Steel was a big granite pile on a quiet tree-lined road: bay windows on either side of a dark-red door; a garden full of rose bushes, the air thick with their scent and the hum of bees.

A knot of keys appeared from the depths of her jacket pocket, then she unlocked the door and beckoned Logan over. ‘Don’t just stand there – neighbours will think I’ve gone funny, bringing scruffy men home with black eyes.’

Logan scowled at her. ‘I’m not scruffy.’

‘You say tomato. . .’

Cheeky sod, there was nothing wrong with his suit. OK, so he got it in the sales at Slaters for forty quid, but what was wrong with that? Couldn’t beat a machine-washable jacket and trousers when your job description included dealing with people likely to vomit all over you.