Rennie gave a huge yawn, showing off his fillings, then slumped into the visitor’s chair. ‘Gah. . .’

Logan looked up from the stack of overtime, expenses, and budget request forms that had magically appeared in his in-box. ‘If you’re here for a moan, you can bugger right back out again.’

‘Been round every drop-in centre and hostel in town, and no one’s caught so much as a whiff of Scotty Scabs.’

He checked his watch: one forty-five, which meant Henry Scott would have a decent head start. ‘That’s strange – he was sitting on the steps of Gilcomston Church when I spoke to him an hour ago.’

Rennie stared, a smile dawning across his face. ‘You found him? Cool, is he in the cells, because—’

‘I said I spoke to him, didn’t say I’d arrested him.’

The smile disappeared. ‘But I’ve been looking for him for ages! How am I—’

‘I needed information on Roy Forman; gave my word I wouldn’t do him for the shoplifting.’

‘But—’

‘If you get off your backside and hurry over there, you might still catch him. Otherwise. . .’ Shrug.

Rennie scrambled out of his seat, reaching the door just in time for it to swing open. He jerked to a halt, staring at Chalmers. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

She stuck her chin out. ‘DS Rennie.’

He folded his arms. ‘DS Chalmers.’

God help us. Logan grabbed a biro from his desk and chucked it at Rennie’s back. It bounced right between the silly sod’s shoulder blades. ‘Thought you were in a hurry.’

‘Yes. Right. Fine.’ Rennie pulled his shoulders back and marched from the room, not even looking at Chalmers.

She pursed her lips, raised an eyebrow, then closed the door behind him.

Logan went back to his forms. ‘Steel about? ’

‘She’s sloped off to get a quick cigarette in before the review.’

Small mercies.

He moved on to the next form in the pile. ‘How did you get on? ’

Chalmers dragged out her notebook. ‘Far as we can tell, there’s no record of Roy Forman being referred for counselling in the last two years. He saw a therapist for about eighteen months after he got back from Kuwait, but that was it.’

So much for that. ‘Never mind, what about—’

‘But. . .’ Theatrical pause. ‘I did manage to track down the head of psychiatric care at Aberdeen Royal Infirmary, and he says that there’s a handful of therapists offering free treatment to the long-term homeless and victims of violent crime.’

‘Did you. . .? ’

She peeled a Post-it note from her book and placed it on Logan’s desk. ‘Thought you might ask.’

Four names, one of them instantly recognizable: Dr David Goulding. Giving free therapy sessions to the homeless. Poor sods. Each of the doctors on the list had a telephone number picked out in careful numerals beneath it.