Logan grabbed his phone and put in a call to ex-DI Insch, stuffing an extra set of photos into the blue folder with the post-mortem shots while it rang.

The big man’s voice boomed out of the earpiece. ‘About time you called back! I told you to have a word with Robbie Whyte, not arrest him!’

Call him back? Logan pulled the mobile from his ear and poked at the screen. Four voicemails and three text messages. All from Insch’s number. Ah. . .

‘Been in meetings all morning, so I—’

‘What part of “keep it low key” did you have difficulty understanding? ’

‘He gave Nichole Fyfe a gift-wrapped severed dog’s head and assaulted two people. I didn’t have any choice.’

‘CHOICE? If you’d got your finger out and spoken to him when I asked you to, it wouldn’t have happened and I wouldn’t have my lead actress bawling her eyes out in her trailer unable to do any BLOODY WORK!’

Wonderful. A bollocking from Insch. Just like the good old days.

‘You said to get in touch if I needed anything.’

‘You think you deserve a favour? ’

‘I – didn’t – have – any – choice. I’m trying to solve three murders here, OK? I’m sorry if that’s inconveniencing you in any way.’

Silence from the other end of the phone. Then, finally, ‘What do you want? ’

‘How about the name and number of your witchcraft consultant? ’

‘Wow.’ The man in the leather jacket rubbed a hand across his downturned mouth and neatly trimmed beard. ‘And you’re sure I’m supposed to be in here? ’ He’d hauled his long blond hair back into a ponytail. That and the beard, the chiselled features, and broad shoulders made Alex Hay look more like a Viking than Aberdeen City Council’s chief historian.

Logan tucked the folder under his arm and pointed to the path of raised metal trays beneath his feet, the little metal legs keeping them a couple of inches above the patio slabs outside the back door. ‘Forensics have got everything they’re going to get; just stick to the walkway and you’ll be fine.’

Alex pulled on a smile that didn’t seem all that happy with his face. ‘Does it always smell like this? ’

Logan patted him on the back – it was like patting a brick wall. Had to be solid muscle underneath the leather. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be worse inside.’

‘Worse. Right. Good. . .’

Logan turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. The smell of meat, long past its sell-by date oozed out from the kitchen, sunk its claws into the base of his stomach and twisted. He blinked, turned his face away, breathing through his mouth. The air tasted as bad as it smelled. ‘OK, maybe masks would be a good idea.’