He sighed, pushed his glasses back into place again. ‘Man, you are cynical.’ He slipped the envelope under one of the Fiat’s windscreen wipers, sending a little avalanche of twigs and grass tumbling onto the bonnet. ‘No skin off my nose, man. But if you’re no’ going to sort it out. . .’ Jamie bared his teeth and sooked air through them. ‘Gonnae get messy.’

‘Always does.’

‘Later, OK? ’ He backed away, grinning. ‘And I meant what I said about Reuben.’

‘. . .talk of industrial action across the whole Scottish Police Services Authority. We spoke to Grampian Police Assistant Chief Constable Denis Irvin. . .’

Logan turned the radio down a bit, shifted his phone from one ear to the other, and changed down into third as Mounthooly roundabout loomed into view. A vast hump of grass and trees, easily big enough for a full-sized football pitch, like an island in the stream of traffic. ‘Look, how difficult can it be? Just get a copy of Anthony Chung’s criminal record from San Francisco.’

On the other end of the phone, PC Guthrie groaned. ‘You know what getting anything out of the Yanks is like.’

‘. . .inconceivable they’d do anything as counterproductive and ill-judged as strike. . .’

‘Someone’s got to have a liaison officer with the US Justice Department: try the Serious and Organized Crime Agency.’

‘They’re even worse than the bloody Americans.’

True.

‘. . .assure the people of the north-east that Grampian Police won’t let this impact on public safety or pursuing criminals to justice. . .’

A taxi’s brake lights flared at the entrance to the roundabout, it juddered to a halt, just missing getting obliterated by an eighteen-wheeler loaded down with offshore drilling pipes. Idiot should’ve been watching where he was going. Logan drifted over into the outside lane. ‘If they give you any lip, tell them there’s a suggestion he’s connected to a terrorist organization.’

‘He is? ’

‘No, but it’ll get their finger out of their bumholes.’

‘. . .other news, to celebrate national sandwich week, one group of Ellon school pupils aim to create the world’s longest chip buttie. . .’

The junction was coming up. Logan put his foot on the brake. ‘Just make sure you say it’s “unconfirmed sources”. . .’ The car wasn’t slowing down.

He did it again. Still nothing.

One more time, jamming his foot to the floor.

The rattling Fiat Punto just kept on going.

‘. . .weather’s going to remain overcast, but we could see some heavy rain later in the day. . .’

Handbrake! Logan yanked it on and the rear wheels locked, screeching across the road surface, heading right out onto the roundabout in a stinking cloud of hot rubber. Teeth gritted, eyes screwed to narrowed slits, arms straight out in front, hands wrapped tightly enough around the steering wheel to turn his knuckles bone-white. Right into the path of a dozen vehicles.

‘STOP YOU RUSTY PIECE OF CRAP!’