Crumbs tumbled down his front as he bit into it. ‘You know her? ’

The squinting got so fierce it looked as if her whole face was going to implode. ‘Can’t see a thing without my glasses.’ Another deep breath. ‘INA!’

A large grey cat with dark markings hopped up onto Logan’s lap, stared at him, then plonked itself down. A throaty burring noise, and the whole thing started vibrating.

Mary beamed. ‘My, my: Lopez doesn’t usually like men, you’re honoured.’

‘Yeah. . .’ The large furry body leached heat into his trousers, like a hairy hot-water bottle.

‘Just don’t touch his tummy, or he’ll have your hand in shreds.’ One more huge breath. ‘INA! FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!’

Another little old lady shambled into the room, tugging a pastel-blue cardigan around her shoulders. She had to be at least ten years older than her sister, liver-spotted scalp clearly visible through her thinning hair. A milk-bottle-bottomed pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose, the legs attached to a gold chain around her neck. ‘All right, all right, I’m not deaf.’

‘Do you want some tea? ’

She peered at Logan through her glasses; they made her eyes huge. ‘You don’t look like the police.’

He hauled out his warrant card and she took it with a trembling clawed hand, the fingers arthritic and twisted.

‘Ah. You’ll be here about that clay-head thing.’

Finally. ‘You know who it is? ’

‘Oh aye.’ She took off the glasses and handed them to Mary. ‘See? ’

Mary slipped them on and blinked at the poster she was holding. ‘Oh, that’s much better, I can hear everything now.’ Then she passed the glasses and the picture of Dr Graham’s facial reconstruction to the old lady in the corner. ‘Look, Effie, isn’t that something? ’

‘I had another vision.’ In the magnifying lenses Effie’s left eye was a sea of red, the iris pale and watery.

‘Put your teeth in, Effie. No one can understand a word you’re saying.’

Ina hobbled over to the bookcase and pulled out a photo album. She opened it, smiled, then ran a hand across the pages. ‘I need the glasses.’

They were passed back along the line. ‘Right. . .’ She flipped forward a couple of pages, then placed the album on the coffee table, next to the tea things. ‘There you go.’

A woman stared out of the album, with seventies hair and sixties glasses, the colours faded to pale yellows, orange and brown. She was the spitting image of the clay head. Dr Graham was good.

Under the stern, lined face, were the words, ‘A HAPPY HOLIDAY IN LOSSIEMOUTH, JUNE 1978’.

And now the family resemblance was clear: Ina, Effie, and Mary were sisters.

‘She’s your mother.’

‘Oh aye, Agnes Gray: scourge of the parish. She was a firebrand, that one.’

Agnes. Same name as their missing teenager.