‘We’re no’ ruling it out, but we’re no’ relying on it either.’ Steel clunked the bottle down on the table next to her. ‘Right, people, just in case you’re thinking of running off on your own to play on the swings: chain of command. As these are all high-profile deaths our beloved Assistant Chief Constable is carrying the bucket of jobbies, and I’m in charge of doling them out to whoever’s pissed me off the most that day. For now, DI McRae’s running the necklacing case, Leith’s doing the torture victim, and Bell’s on our skeleton. If they hand you a turd, you thank them kindly and deal with it. ’Cos if I hear you’re shirking jobbie duty, I’ll hunt you down and make sure you’re pooping shoe leather for a week. Understand? ’

Silence.

Steel squared her shoulders. ‘Ladies, and gentlemen, we are no’ at home to Mr Fuckup today. Who are we no’ at home to? ’

The response wasn’t much more than an embarrassed murmur. ‘Mr Fuckup.’

‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU! WHO ARE WE NO’ AT HOME TO? ’

Better this time: ‘Mr Fuckup.’

‘ONE MORE TIME!’

They bellowed it out: ‘WE ARE NOT AT HOME TO MR FUCKUP!’

‘Damn right we’re no’.’ She smiled, nodded. ‘Now get out there and catch me those bloody killers!’

Logan made it as far as his office, a mug of coffee clutched in one hand shrouding him in bitter steam and the promise of actually managing to stay awake until lunchtime.

‘Guv? ’

He closed his eyes. Counted to five.

‘Guv? ’

When he opened them again, PC Guthrie was still standing there, pale eyebrows making a question mark on his podgy face.

Well, it was worth a try. ‘Whatever you want, it can wait till I’ve had my coffee.’

Guthrie followed him into the office. ‘Erm. . . Do you remember DI Insch? Well, he’s just been on the phone about some bloke going mental at one of his starlets. Says he wants you to deal.’

‘Does he now.’ Logan eased himself into his seat, back creaking and pinging all the way down. The coffee was spoon-meltingly strong, making things fizz behind his eyes. ‘Send a patrol car.’

The constable shuffled his police-issue boots. ‘He was kind of insistent it had to be you, Guv.’

Of course he was. Logan put his coffee down. Sighed. Then stood. ‘Get a car.’

PC Guthrie hauled the CID pool car into the car park behind a swanky boutique hotel on Queen’s Road. A middle-aged man in black trousers and burgundy waistcoat was sitting on a low wall, a clump of blood-soaked tissue held against his nose. Scarlet stains covered the front of his white shirt. He looked up as Guthrie hauled on the handbrake and climbed out into the morning sun.

Logan levered himself out of his seat, something sharp grinding away at the base of his spine.