One side of Robbie Whyte’s face was scratched and glowing with carpet burn, other than that, there didn’t seem to be a mark on him. What he did have was a rumpled quiff, designer stubble, bright-blue eyes ringed in red veins, and a dimple in his chin big enough to hide a Malteser. That, the hairy arms, and the pot belly, made him look like a boy band member who’d gone to seed. His grey T-shirt had ‘GOD’S GIFT’ printed on it in big flesh-coloured letters. The ‘i’ in ‘gift’ was shaped to look like a willy.

‘Get off me!’ He kicked out, just missing Logan’s knee. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ The smell of stale beer, whisky, and kebab oozed out of him.

Logan took a step back and produced his warrant card. ‘Threatening a police officer is an offence, Mr Whyte. As is assault.’

‘I never did nothing! NOTHING!’

Mr Muscle tightened his grip on the guy’s shoulders. ‘Mr Whyte, I strongly suggest you cooperate with the authorities.’

Logan swapped his warrant card for his notebook. ‘Where’s Nichole Fyfe? ’

The big man nodded back over his shoulder. ‘Miss Fyfe is upstairs in her room. She’s deeply upset.’

‘I didn’t do nothing.’

Mr Muscle gave him a little shake. ‘Mr Whyte here has been hanging around the hotel for at least the last three days. Last night he tried to make contact with Miss Fyfe. She informed him that their relationship was over four years ago, and asked him to leave her alone.’

Whyte’s face darkened. ‘That’s crap. You bring her in here, and she’ll tell you—’

‘This morning, Miss Fyfe opened her hotel-room door and discovered a parcel in the corridor outside, addressed to her.’

‘It’s bollocks. He’s lying—’

‘When Miss Fyfe opened it, she discovered the severed head of a Yorkshire terrier, wrapped up in press clippings about her involvement with the filming of Witchfire.’

‘I told you it wasn’t me!’

Logan stared at him. ‘Seriously? ’

Mr Muscle nodded at a cardboard box sitting in the middle of the room’s desk. It was still partially wrapped in gold and silver paper. Logan peeked inside. It wasn’t a big terrier, the head no bigger than his fist, the fur around the muzzle and neck spiky with dark-red clots, both eyes open, staring up out of the box at him.

At least that explained the smell.

The head nestled in a bowl of scrunched newspaper and pages torn from magazines, all of it stained with blood. Looked as if there were a couple of decent fingerprints on a photo-spread from Hello! ‘FABULOUS NICHOLE SPARKLES AT ABERDEEN CHARITY AUCTION’, the whorls and deltas picked out in scarlet.

‘You killed a dog? What is wrong with you? ’