‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘And then I’m going to tell her how you’ve always wanted to join the WRI, and can she put in a good word for you? ’

‘If you think—’

‘And then, I’m going to show her how to stalk you on Facebook.’

Steel glowered at him, the little red LED in the tip of her fake cigarette flickering angry Morse code. ‘Fine: I’ll be nicer to Rennie.’

He stood. Yawned. ‘Anything else? ’

‘Don’t push it, Laz, or you’ll no’ get your present.’

‘Present? ’

Why did that sound like a threat?

PC Sim had her hands behind her back, walking up Union Street with careful measured steps, in full-on Dixon of Dock Green mode. She glanced up at the ribbon of sky trapped between the granite buildings standing guard on either side of the road. The shining blue had faded to milky white, with clots of pale grey spreading like cancer. She sniffed. ‘Hope the rain holds off till I get home. Got a load of towels out.’

They crossed over to the other side at the lights outside Waterstones, making for the line of charity shops and banks that lined this part of the West End. Corporate greed and unwanted paperbacks, cheek and jowl.

Next stop Gilcomston Church.

Sim hummed something to herself, smiling in the sunshine, padding slowly along. ‘Think we’re going to find a witness? ’

‘Do you? ’

‘Nope. Might just be a uniform plod, but I’m not daft. Body out in the middle of nowhere, killed like that, whoever did it is organized and tidy. A planner. They didn’t screech up in a black van and bundle Mr Forman inside. They did it careful and quiet, somewhere no one would see.’

‘Probably.’

A lump-faced woman marched towards them, wheeling a double buggy with two screaming toddlers imprisoned within it. The fag sticking out the corner of her mouth twitching with every muttered swear word.

Logan and Sim broke apart, taking opposite sides of the pavement and letting Mummy Dearest stomp past between them.

When they came back together Sim froze, gazing in through a charity shop window.

Logan stopped beside her.

Someone had put up a display with a mannequin dressed head-to-toe in black leather with a red notebook tucked under its arm. A sheet acted as the backdrop with a Ring Knot picked out in black paint on it, all the squiggles and circles and words identical to the one on the kitchen floor out in Kintore. A stack of hardbacks and paperbacks sat on a little wooden table beside the mannequin, a skull perched on the top. All of them copies of Witchfire.

Sim nodded at it. ‘My niece, Amanda, did it for her English Standard Grade. Got a B. Made the whole family read it then sit down and discuss,’ Sim made quote-bunnies with her fingers, ‘“symbolism” and “themes”, like some kind of resentful book club.’