A people carrier slammed on its brakes as he slid to a halt right in front of it. Its horn blared an angry tattoo into the early morning air, the driver’s face dark pink as she screamed obscenities behind the windscreen.

‘. . .just to rub it in: here’s the Eurythmics with “Here Comes the Rain Again”.’

Logan closed his eyes, rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Everything inside him sagged, as if someone had pulled the plug out. Not crushed to death in a mangled ball of rusty metal after all.

More horns joined the people carrier’s angry song.

He sat up straight, blinked, then wound down his window.

Exhaust fumes and burning rubber never smelled so sweet.

The people-carrier’s driver was still swearing at him through the glass, veins standing out in her neck like angry snakes.

He held up a hand and turned the engine over again, stuck the Punto in reverse and slowly dragged it backwards onto Causeway End. Pumping his foot on the brake pedal did sod all, so he used the handbrake again.

Christ, that was close. . .

‘Tada. . .’ Dr Graham whipped the cloth away, exposing a clay head: large nose, high cheekbones, jowls, a small mouth set between two deep crevices. She placed it on Steel’s desk. ‘Of course, I had to use a bit of artistic licence on the wrinkles, but all in all I’m pretty happy with it.’

Steel screwed up her eyes, leaned forward in her chair and peered at it. ‘No’ a sodding clue. You? ’

Logan shrugged. ‘Just a random old lady.’

‘Nah: one thing I know about nutjobs, Laz, is they don’t do things for no reason. She’s no’ random, she’s somebody special. We just don’t know why yet.’

Dr Graham shuffled her feet. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve turned up another body needing facial reconstruction, have you? Maybe more skeletonized remains? ’

Steel leaned back in her chair and puffed on her fake cigarette. ‘Laz, get the auld wifie’s head up to Media: I want her on the telly news by lunchtime, all the papers, blah, blah, blah.’ She stared at him. ‘Sometime before we all die of old age would be good. And try to crack a smile, eh? Won’t kill you.’

‘Thanks. Very funny. I nearly died, OK? ’

‘Serves you right for being a tightwad and buying crappy old rustbuckets then, doesn’t it? ’

‘Just. . .’ The muscles in his jaw clenched. ‘Fine.’ Logan grabbed the head – surprisingly heavy, almost as bad as the real thing – and stomped out, slamming the door shut behind him.

Steel’s voice oozed through the wood. ‘Touchy. . . Now, Doc, about your invoice. . .’

The Wee Hoose echoed with laughter that died as soon as Logan walked in. Biohazard Bob and three PCs cleared their throats, Biohazard sticking something in his pocket as the uniforms shuffled out of the room, faces flushed, not making eye contact.