‘I know my own son!’ His shoulders quivered. ‘He got the tattoo the day before he went missing. He said it would impress Agnes. . .’ Raymond Chung wrapped his arms around himself. ‘Please, just. . .’ A shuddering breath. ‘I can’t do this any more.’

Rennie backed into the room, balancing two coffees on the lid from a box of copier paper with one hand, and holding a blue folder in the other, a glossy magazine trapped in his armpit. He placed the makeshift tray on the corner of Logan’s desk and sank into the visitor’s chair. ‘Poor woman nearly turned herself inside out.’ He dipped into his jacket and produced a couple of chunky Kit Kats.

‘Can’t really blame her.’

Rennie unwrapped one of the biscuits, bit into it, took a slurp of his coffee, then slumped back with his magazine: Heat, with yet another photo of Nichole Fyfe and Morgan Mitchell on the cover. The pair of them posing in their leather Fingermen getup with shiny swords and handguns. ‘CLOSER THAN SISTERS ~ NICHOLE AND MORGAN SPILL THE BEANS ON GUYS, GUNS, AND GETTING THE PERFECT MOVIE-STAR BODY!’

Logan creaked the top off his coffee. ‘Comfortable? ’

‘Not bad, thanks.’ He flipped through the pages, little bits of Kit Kat sticking to his chin as he chewed. Then stopped, mouth hanging open. ‘Ooh, Matron!’ Rennie held up the centre spread – Nichole and Morgan in bikinis, posing on Balmedie Beach. ‘See if I wasn’t married. . .’

‘She’d still have nothing to do with you.’ Logan fired up his email. No sign of any threatening or weird fan mail from William Hunter’s web person yet.

‘Nah, I’d be a good influence on her.’ He turned the magazine the right way round again and smiled down at the photo. ‘Keep her on the straight and narrow.’

There were half a dozen or so memos from Steel, a reminder from the ACC about not talking to the press, and four warnings from Internal Services about what would happen if they caught whoever it was who kept jamming up the third-floor toilets with packing peanuts.

Delete.

Rennie took another bite of Kit Kat. ‘Guthrie bet me twenty quid she’d knifed someone when she was thirteen. Silly sod.’

Logan looked up from his email. ‘She knifed someone? ’

‘Course she didn’t. Her boyfriend battered the crap out of someone with a cricket bat when he was fifteen, but worst she ever did was a spot of unlawful removal and some shoplifting from WHSmiths. Nicking cars and Bounty Bars. Not exactly Moriarty, is it? ’

Hmph. He went back to deleting things. ‘You’re not supposed to do PNC searches on people to settle bets. Lucky I don’t report you.’