Chalmers flipped over the page in her notebook. ‘According to Agnes Garfield’s parents she was undergoing treatment as part of an experimental trial programme at Aberdeen University. Something about a comparative benefit analysis of cognitive behaviour therapy and medication.’ Another Post-it note joined the first, this one with a single name in the middle: Prof. Richard Marks. ‘I tried talking to him, but he’s squealing patient-doctor privilege. We could get a warrant? ’

‘We could do that,’ Logan chucked the form back on top of his in-tray and stood, ‘or we could try the old two birds, one stone, routine.’

‘. . .and when I read the script, I fell in love with it. Of course I’d adored the books as a wee girl, I mean, who didn’t, right? I always knew it’d make a great film, but I never thought I’d be lucky enough to be in it!’

Logan’s manky Fiat Punto bounced and thrummed over the cobbles on College Bounds, past the dirty beige-and-grey stonework of King’s College – the big vaulted crown on top of the bell tower swathed in scaffolding and gauzy material like some massive spider’s web.

Chalmers scowled out from behind the steering wheel. ‘It’s all double yellows. . .’

‘Wow. I know.’ The DJ’s voice had more cheese in it than Steel’s macaroni. ‘Right, you’re listening to Jimmy’s Late Lunch, and I’m here with Nichole Fyfe. Yeah, that’s right, local girl made good, and full-on Hollywood superstar: Nichole Fyfe! How cool is that? ’

A silky laugh. ‘I’m definitely not a superstar, Jimmy. Dame Judi Dench is a superstar, Robbie Coltrane is a superstar, Morgan Mitchell is a superstar. I’m just a wee girl from Kincorth hoping no one’s going to start wondering what on earth I’m doing hanging about with all these great people.’

Logan pointed through the windscreen. ‘Keep going. Might be a couple of spaces further up.’

‘So, are you going to pick another track for us, Nichole? ’

‘You bet, Jimmy. This is a song that meant a lot to me when I was growing up: it’s Eminem with “The Real Slim Shady”.’

Chalmers grimaced, then clicked the radio off. ‘Can’t stand rap.’

A group of students, dressed as ninja chickens, leapt and twirled across the road, pausing in the middle to throw some sloppy kung fu moves about, before sprinting off across a small chunk of emerald grass. White feathers tumbled in their wake.

Logan’s phone rang, ‘The Imperial March’ muffled in his jacket pocket. Steel.

Chalmers rumbled the rusty car up the High Street, ivy-covered university buildings on one side, bland granite tenements on the other. ‘Aren’t you going to answer that? ’

He shifted in his seat. ‘Sooner not.’

Eventually the music stopped. Then two beats later it started up again.

‘You sure, Guv? ’