‘Little sods don’t know they’re born. We never got a choice at school, it was Of Mice and Men and sodding Macbeth or a clip round the ear.’

‘I suppose Witchfire’s OK. I mean, if you like that kind of thing. Kind of a cross between Fatherland, Night Watch, and Silence of the Lambs. Still, at least it got her reading; always thought she’d turn out thick as bogies, like her dad.’

Logan stared at the display. ‘Started reading it last night. Got to the bit where the Moderator tells Rowan about her father.’

Sim’s mouth curdled. ‘You’re not wanting to discuss symbolism and theme, are you? Only once was bad enough.’

Logan headed up the street again. ‘Agnes is recreating bits of the book; thought it wouldn’t hurt to know what to look for.’

‘Tenet Two: “Know thine enemy, for knowledge is power and power is victory.”’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me like that, told you we had to read it.’

Gilcomston Church reared up into the sky, the jagged grey steeple towering over the surrounding buildings. The place was an elaborate gothic lump of dirt-streaked granite, its main entrance raised far enough above street level to need a short flight of stone steps up to the wide wooden door. A pair of posters were mounted on either side in Perspex-fronted display boxes. The eye-melting orange one read, ‘JESUS LOVES YOU EACH AND EVERY DAY!’ and the nuclear-urine yellow one, ‘NEW: SENIORS’ BINGO EVERY WEDNESDAY!!!’

Two men and a woman lounged on the steps, wearing tatty parka jackets and waterproofs, dressed for winter even though the last few days had been like a furnace. A collection of carrier-bags made a plastic halo around them, stuffed with clothes and tins. Probably everything they had to their names.

Logan stopped at the foot of the stairs and smiled up at them. ‘Morning.’

One of the men scowled out from beneath a threadbare woollen hat, his eyes thin and yellow, flecked with red veins. He clutched a tin of extra-strong Co-op lager to his chest, shielding it with his other hand. The sour smell of stale piss and alcohol hung around him like a thundercloud. ‘I ain’t done nothing. You can’t prove I done nothing, I know my rights.’

The other man and the woman sidled closer together. He had one leg in plaster from the knee down, and his face was a mess of scabs and scratches. That would be Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, the only one of Rennie’s shoplifting tramps not currently lying on a refrigerated drawer in the mortuary.

The woman had a wad of stained gauze wadding taped over her left eye, her hair like damp straw, fingernails painted bright scarlet. She slid a half bottle of supermarket vodka into her pocket.

Sim held up a hand. ‘It’s OK, Trevor, we’re not here to hassle you—’

‘Whoever says I did it is lying!’