Someone was moving in the shadows, halfway between the nightclub and the soup kitchen, lurking in one of the barrel arches that lined the road. Too dim to make out who. . . Logan wandered across the road, nice and casual, hands in his pockets, keeping the figure in the corner of his eye. Then turned and walked slowly and quietly up behind them.

Whoever it was, they were layered up in a padded parka jacket with a hoodie on underneath, tracksuit bottoms. A woolly hat pulled down over their ears. Then they shuffled to the side and the lights spilling out from the nightclub caught the once-white case of a plaster cast – left leg, from the knee all the way down. His foot was encased in a shapeless black leather boot to keep the cast out of the dirt and damp.

So it wasn’t Agnes in disguise, it was Henry Scott, AKA: Scotty Scabs, from the Gilcomston Church steps. The only tramp Rennie needed to complete his set.

Logan stopped creeping. ‘You avoiding someone, Henry? ’

The wee man flinched, spun around, then backed away until he was hard up against the brick wall. ‘He’s deid. . .’

‘Did you see her again: Agnes Garfield? The woman who took Roy Forman? ’

Henry blinked at him, eyes gleaming in the darkness. ‘She killed him. He’s deid.’

OK. So much for that. ‘Are you hungry? Why don’t you go get yourself a nice bowl of soup or something? ’

‘What if the witch gets me? I don’t want to be deid. . .’

‘She’s not really a witch, Henry, she’s just lost and sick and can’t tell what’s real any more.’

The rubber tips of Henry’s crutches squeaked on the cobblestones. A little sob caught in his throat. ‘She killed him. . .’

‘You want me to go get you something to eat? Would you like that, Henry? ’

‘If she catches me, she’ll kill me too. . .’

Logan came within an inch of patting him on the shoulder, but Henry flinched away again. ‘OK, it’s OK. . . You stay here and keep an eye out, and I’ll go get you some soup.’

Poor sod needed more than soup. Like somewhere safe to sleep, medication, therapy, and a bath.

Logan made for the mobile catering unit, joining the queue. Only five people to go and it’d be his turn.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Guv? ’ Rennie, wearing his leather jacket and a scarlet T-shirt, a paper soup bowl in one hand and a plastic spork in the other. ‘Thought you were going home? ’

A shrug. ‘Any luck? ’

‘Yeah: the chicken and chorizo casserole is bloody lovely. I’m having thirds.’

‘Any luck with Agnes Garfield, you idiot.’