The words of an old song echoed out from the bathroom, mingling with the roar of the shower: a Pink Floyd number rendered with more enthusiasm than talent or musical ability. Couldn’t carry a tune if it was bound, gagged, and locked in the boot of a car.

Logan stretched out, flat on his back, the duvet rumpled down about his chest. Warmth oozed through his limbs, pulling him down into the fresh sheets. Mmmm. . .

‘Stop grinning.’ Samantha settled on the edge of the bed. ‘Makes you look like a smug hamster.’ The oversized black T-shirt rode up around her thighs, Marilyn Manson glaring out from her boobs with his lopsided contact lenses. One of her knee-length red-and-black striped socks had a hole in it, a little toe poking out – nail painted shiny black. ‘See you got rid of Shakespeare.’

A big sigh inflated Logan’s chest, then let it go again. Warm and fuzzy. . . ‘Couldn’t have him ogling you in the nip. That’s my job. Union won’t stand for it.’

She laid a hand on his chest. Looked away towards the bathroom, then back down at him. ‘Do you love her? ’

‘I love you.’

‘Don’t avoid the question, Captain Stabmarks: do you love her? ’

‘I. . . No. I used to, but it was a long time ago.’

‘Good.’ Samantha nodded, a smile curling one side of her mouth. ‘Just remember: you’re mine, Sunshine.’

A clunk, then the bedroom door opened and DS Jackie Watson stepped into the room, head on one side, drying her long dark hair on a grey towel, a big blue one wrapped around her middle, hiding all the naughty parts. A small furrow appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Thought I heard voices? ’

Logan turned, but Samantha was gone. ‘Just . . . talking to myself.’

‘Got to watch that.’ Jackie sank down onto the bed, in the exact same spot that Samantha had just vacated. ‘Bad enough you work with a bunch of nutjobs without turning into one.’ Water droplets shone on her pale shoulders, sitting in the hollows carved into her skin by bra straps.

She reached out and picked Agnes Garfield’s dittay book from the bedside cabinet. ‘A red leather journal? Maybe it’s too late after all. . .’ She flipped through it, one eyebrow climbing further and further up her forehead with every page. ‘Oh God, you write poetry now? ’

‘It’s not mine. It’s from the necklacing case.’

Jackie took a deep breath, creating a swell of cleavage at the border of the towel. ‘Listen to this:

“I give my love a token,

of all the hearts he’s broken,

The lungs that are exploding,

the harsh words that were spoken,

He’ll fear what he’s awoken,

And back to earth he goes.

In darkness walks the liar,

We’ll cleanse his house with fire,

Come build the funeral pyre. . .”’

She clumped the book shut again. ‘Bet Pam Ayres is shaking in her boots.’