‘Arrested him . . . God knows how many times. His patrol copped a roadside bomb in Iraq – aye, no’ the sequel, the first time round – came home blind in one eye with all his mates dead. Crawled inside a bottle and never left.’

Logan frowned at the head. ‘So what was he doing out in Thainstone with a burning tyre around his neck? Think he did something to Agnes? Harassed her, or something? ’

Steel sat back and smiled. ‘I remember this one time, I did Fusty Forman for peeing in some shop doorway, absolutely goat-buggeringly hammered, he was. And soon as I get him back to the station, there’s Finnie shouting the odds about. . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Well, let’s call it a misunderstanding over whether it was OK to claim three lap-dances and a bottle of tequila on expenses or not. And Finnie’s mid-rant, when Fusty leans over and barfs chunks all over him. I mean all over him.’ The smile turned into a grin. ‘Bits in his hair and all down his front and everything. So Finnie lurches off, all stinking of sick, and Fusty gives us this big wink. Says he did it on purpose, ’cos Finnie was being a dick to his favourite copper.’

She sat there in silence, looking at the head, the grin fading from her face. ‘Poor old sod.’

‘Nooo. . .’ On the other end of the phone, Rennie sounded as if he was on the verge of tears. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is? ’

‘Quarter past eleven.’

‘I was asleep!’

‘Hey, you’re the one who moaned because you weren’t told about us solving the jewellery heist.’

‘Jewellery. . .? ’ A yawn. ‘I don’t care. Sleep. Need sleep. . .’

‘OK, well, in that case you go back to bed and I’ll get Chalmers to look into it.’

Silence. ‘Chalmers? ’

‘We’ve found one of your missing tramps: Roy Forman. He was our necklacing victim.’

A thump, a crash, some swearing, then: ‘I’ll be right in.’

Logan hung up. Now they knew who the victim was it was going to be a lot easier to solve. Connect Agnes Garfield to Roy ‘Fusty’ Forman, and that would be that. How hard could it be? He swivelled back and forth in his chair a couple of times.

Then stopped.

There was a sheet of paper sitting in his in-tray, on top of Steel’s half-completed budget analysis. It was a PNC search for Nichole Fyfe’s ex-boyfriend Robbie Whyte. Guthrie must have dropped it off while Logan was off visiting the Kintore crime scene.

He picked it up and skimmed through it. Shoplifting, assault, blah, blah, breaking into people’s cars and nicking things, joyriding. . .

A smile stretched across Logan’s face.

‘Oh, you little beauty.’

The viewing suite still smelled of old Pot Noodles, but now came with an extra stale-biscuity whiff of cheesy feet.