‘Oh, the head! Yes, yes, of course, you’ll have to come in, I’m a little deaf when I don’t have my glasses on.’

Sweat prickled across the back of Logan’s neck. A three-bar fire glowed malevolently in the fireplace, turning the small room into a furnace. Sunlight streamed through the lounge window, two massive spotty cats curled up on the sill, ears fixed in his direction.

Three more cats slumbered in front of the electric fire; a pair of Siamese on the sofa; one on top of a bookcase full of ancient leather-bound volumes, their titles picked out in crumbling gold leaf. A bronze urn gleamed on the mantelpiece, between black-and-white photographs of unsmiling women in heavy black frames.

The sound of tea things clattered through the open door.

Another little old lady snored away in a chair by the fire, mouth hanging open like a damp pink cave, a tartan blanket draped over her knees. A stripy ginger cat sat on her lap, glowering at Logan with emerald eyes when it took a pause from washing its bum.

Mary Gray shuffled back into the room. Rennie was right behind her, carrying a silver tray covered in cups and saucers and a plate of cakes and a big china teapot. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around him. ‘Erm, where. . .? ’

Mary waved a hand at a black-and-brown tortoiseshell curled up on the coffee table. ‘Shipman! Come on, you naughty monkey, move for the nice man.’ She shooed him away and Rennie lowered the tray in the cat’s place.

‘Miss Gray, you said—’

‘Please, sit, sit.’ A wide grin. ‘Don’t mind Sutcliffe and Chikatilo, their bark’s worse than their bite.’

Logan nudged one of the Siamese out of the way and sat. It stuck its tail in the air then hopped down to lurk under the coffee table. Rennie perched on the other end of the sofa, right at the edge so as not to disturb the other cat.

‘You said you can identify our reconstruction.’

‘Oh yes.’ She gave the sleeping woman a poke in the shoulder. ‘Effie? Effie, do you want some tea and a slice of Battenberg? ’

The snoring stopped. ‘Eh? Who’s that? ’ Her voice was wet and shapeless, slurred by a lack of teeth.

‘Do you want tea and cake, Effie? ’

‘Oh. . . Is it Thursday? ’

Logan pulled out the media department’s poster and held it out. ‘We haven’t even got these up yet.’

Mary poured five cups of tea with the delicate precision of a neurosurgeon. ‘Now, you help yourself to milk and sugar.’ Then she turned, took a deep breath, and bellowed out a cry that would have shattered concrete. ‘INA! INA, THE TEA’S MADE!’ Mary picked up the plate and squinted at it. Then handed it to Logan, swapping it for the poster.

Battenberg and scones and shortbread. Always a sucker for homemade shortbread.