Goulding sighed, then wandered over to his wall full of whiteboards. ‘I’d like to work up a profile on Agnes Garfield. We know who she is, but it might help tell us where she is and what she’s going to do next. And much though I hate to impugn the professional reputation of my esteemed colleague: Professor Richard Marks is a dribbling idiot.’

‘I don’t have any say on the budget for this one.’

‘I’ll do it for free, on the condition that you catch her. Roy didn’t deserve to die like that.’

‘Free? ’ Logan raised an eyebrow. ‘In that case, knock yourself out. I’ll get the case files sent over. And if it helps, I think she might have tortured someone to death in Kintore too.’

The office door swung partially open, and there was Chalmers. She froze on the threshold, then knocked. As if they didn’t already know she was there. ‘Sorry, Guv. That’s the warrant in now.’

Logan stood. Put his phone away. ‘He still refusing to cooperate? ’

‘Won’t say a word.’

‘Cuff him, then call Control and tell them to send a patrol car: give Marks the full blues-and-twos treatment. March the little sod out the front door in handcuffs so everyone can see.’

She nodded. ‘Guv, about Agnes Garfield. . .? ’

‘You stay with him till the patrol car gets here. Make sure he’s processed properly – fingerprints, DNA, the lot.’

‘See, I was thinking: Roy Forman was in the Gordon Highlanders, right? A trained soldier, unarmed combat and all that? Would an eighteen-year-old girl really be able to subdue him, tie him up, and burn him like that? Wouldn’t he fight back? ’

Ah. . . Chalmers had a point. ‘Maybe she had help? ’

Goulding picked up a dry eraser. ‘Roy was an alcoholic. Give him a bottle of meths and a straw and he’d do anything you want.’ The eraser cut a swathe through a scribbled mind-map, leaving the ghost of words behind. He picked up a red pen and wrote ‘AGNES GARFIELD’ in the middle of the board and trapped it in a lopsided box. ‘When you stick that idiot Marks in his cell, do me a favour? Make sure there’s someone noisy and smelly next door. It’ll drive him mad.’

Logan took the grumbling Punto for another tour of the surrounding streets. Still no sodding parking space. In the end he had to dump the car on the Beach Boulevard and walk.

A cold wind stirred sand and grit in the gutter, made the trees shiver.

On the other end of the phone, Samantha sighed. ‘Well . . . maybe Wee Hamish is right? Maybe you’ll have to sort Reuben out sooner rather than later.’

‘I’m not killing Reuben.’

‘Who said anything about killing him? I said sort him out. Make a deal with him.’

Logan grimaced. ‘Yeah, because Reuben’s the negotiating type.’