A small knot of Strathclyde’s finest turned and stared at him: Steel’s National Police Improvement Authority review team. Two male officers and one female – all wearing Man at CID suits, with not a smile to be seen. The tallest of them, in a sharp black number, sniffed at Logan. His little evil-magician’s goatee was about three shades darker than the hair clinging to either side of a high creased forehead. He narrowed his hooded eyes. ‘Detective Sergeant McRae, isn’t it? ’

‘Superintendent Smith. Nice to see you again.’

Now that did get a smile. ‘I trust we’re not going to have a repeat of last time? ’

‘That wasn’t really my fault.’

‘DS Kelly still limps when the weather changes, don’t you Gerald? ’

A lump of muscle with a shaved head and big glasses glowered out from beneath heavy eyebrows. ‘He was supposed to be unarmed.’

‘And you were supposed to stay in the car.’

The third member of the trio’s mouth twitched, but she kept the smile in check. She’d aged a bit since the last time – filled out a bit too, but on her it looked good. Her long black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, frizzy around the edges, her makeup almost enough to disguise the dark circles beneath her eyes, but doing nothing to hide the crow’s feet. She nodded at him. ‘DS McRae.’

Logan nodded back. ‘DS Watson. And it’s DI now: acting.’

‘Congratulations.’ She still hadn’t moved.

Superintendent Smith sniffed again. ‘All right, that’s enough unbridled sexual tension for one day. I want to get lunch before the witch-hunt starts. We’ll be seeing you, DI McRae.’

‘I can barely wait, sir.’ Logan stayed where he was as they wandered off towards the Bon Accord Centre. Oh, today just kept getting better and better. . .

Logan dumped the carrier-bag down on Steel’s desk, then sank into the visitor’s chair and let out a long sigh.

She stared at him. ‘Well? ’

‘Didn’t have any stovies, so I got you macaroni cheese instead.’ He dug into the bag and came out with a Styrofoam carton. Handed it over. Then went back in for the other one. Creaked it open to reveal a baked potato with tuna and cheese; savoury smells filled the office. ‘So far, last time anyone saw Fusty Forman was half-ten, Friday night, at the soup kitchen on East Green, where it disappears under Market Street.’

Steel opened her carton. A quivering mound of glistening tubes in a gloopy yellow sauce, next to a jumble of deep-fried potato. ‘You got us chips too!’ A smile deepened the wrinkles about her eyes. ‘There’s hope for you yet.’

‘Going to canvas the soup kitchen tonight, but—’