Up ahead, the ninja chickens were poncing about outside the psychology building, doing their martial arts poses for anyone daft enough to pay any attention.

Logan ignored them, making for the glass doors instead. ‘OK, so forgetting your dad’s appalling dress sense for a minute, you wouldn’t leave your diary. How about a big bag of weed? ’

‘Never smoked it, Guv. I don’t put drugs into my body.’

‘Does Guinness not count then? ’ He held the door open for her. The glass was almost obscured by posters for university am-dram productions of Gilbert and Sullivan and worthy plays, ‘DRUMMER WANTED’ ads, and coming attractions for the film club’s slash-horror season.

‘Maybe Agnes didn’t know she was going to run away? Spur of the moment? ’

Possible. . . ‘Then why didn’t she sneak back in and take the important stuff? ’

Up the stairs to the first floor.

‘Maybe she can’t? Maybe Anthony Chung won’t let her? ’

Maybe. . .

The receptionist put the phone down, then peered at them with watery eyes, a twitchy smile uncomfortable on her face. ‘Dr Goulding will see you now.’

Logan led the way into an office crammed with books on three walls, four large scrawl-covered whiteboards filling the other. The furniture was a collection of minimalist chrome, glass and black leather. A coffee table sat in the middle of the room, littered with publications: Psychology Review, Behavioural and Cognitive Psychotherapy, European Journal of Behavior Analysis, and the International Journal of Neuropsychopharmacology.

The room’s owner lay on what looked like a lumpy black recliner, supported by twin chrome rails, a copy of Magic Magazine draped across his face. No shoes, just a pair of black-and-red socks with pictures of flaming dice on them. The faint drone of snoring, little pot belly going up and down.

Logan waited until Chalmers was inside, then slammed the office door shut, hard enough to make the framed diplomas rattle. ‘Dave!’

Dr Goulding sat bolt upright, the magazine falling into his lap. ‘I’m awake, I’m awake. . .’ He blinked a couple of times, then reached for the pair of glasses on the coffee table and slipped them on. ‘Logan, why didn’t you. . .’ A frown. ‘Did she keep you waiting? ’

‘Ten minutes. Told us you were on a conference call to Johannesburg.’

‘Woman’s a nightmare. Just because I told her she couldn’t have the day off to go play golf.’ He stood, brushed biscuit crumbs from the front of his stripy shirt. ‘Sorry, manners.’ Dr Goulding picked up a pair of two-tone loafers and slipped them on. ‘Take a seat, please.’

Logan settled into a black leather chair that was all rectangles, then nodded at Chalmers. ‘Dave, this is Detective Sergeant Chalmers.’