But Reuben didn’t step inside and kick the living hell out of him. Didn’t stomp on his head and ribs. Didn’t pummel his face to mince. Instead the big man wobbled a bit, clutching the door frame, mouth hanging slightly open, eyes bleary and blinking.

The sharp, smokey stench of stale whisky and sweat came off him in a greasy fug. Chest heaving as he hauled in a breath through his flattened nose. The words came out slurred, riding a little mist of spittle. ‘I know . . . I . . . I know what you . . . you’re doing.’

He rocked back and forward a couple of times, the knuckles on his right hand sticking out like rivets on a steel sheet. ‘You . . . you’re not gonnae . . . get. . . Fuckin’ kill . . . kill you. . .’

Then Reuben’s legs gave up and he slid down the side of the caravan until he was slumped on the top step, shoulders juddering, tears running through the webs of scar tissue, snot glittering through his patchy moustache.

And dangling from the door handle, another knot of little bones.

Bastard. . .

Logan wiped at the drop of scarlet staining the report, leaving a dirty smear through the words. He leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the ceiling, clutching a wodge of paper napkins to his nose.

Detective Sergeant Rennie tutted. ‘Took me ages to type that up, and you’re getting blood all over it.’

Logan’s office was just big enough to fit a couple of filing cabinets, a chipped Formica desk, two whiteboards, a creaky swivel chair, and a visitor’s seat that looked as if it belonged in a skip.

Rennie shifted in it, making the vinyl squeak. He’d gelled his hair up into a blond tuft at the front, his cheeks glowing with sunburn, a curl of skin peeling off the end of his shiny nose. ‘And you didn’t eat your buttie.’ It still sat in the middle of the desk, half unwrapped from its tinfoil shroud. Congealing.

Logan glowered at him. The words came out all bunged up and flat. ‘Do you want to be partnered with Biohazard for the next month? Stuck in small confined spaces with him? Because I can arrange that.’

‘Had to go down the baker’s: canteen’s still closed for the refurb.’ He sniffed. ‘Be cold by now.’

‘Just . . . bugger off.’

The door banged open, rattling the memos pinned to the wall. DCI Steel posed in the doorway. Grinning.

Logan gave her a glower as well. ‘It’s not funny!’

‘Is it no’? ’ Her suit was as unfashionably baggy as her neck; crow’s feet and wrinkles turning her face into a jumble of planes and lines. But it was the hair that really stood out. And up. And in every other direction too. As if she’d brushed it with an angry cat. ‘Looks funny to me.’ She wafted in, bringing a fug of stale-cigarette-stink with her.