‘And after that, you can check up on how Guthrie’s doing getting hold of Anthony Chung’s arrest record from San Francisco.’

Another bit of fluff joined the others. ‘Does it really matter? He’s kinda dead, so—’

‘Because I say so, that’s why.’ He climbed out, then stuck his head back through the open door. ‘I want the names of everyone he was associated with, and if any of them have come into the country in the last six months.’

Rennie’s frown turned into a smile. ‘Ah: you think Agnes didn’t kill him after all. It was one of his old gang mates come to settle a score.’

‘Don’t be an idiot: of course Agnes killed him. I want to know who put her up to it. If Goulding’s profile is right, she needs a dominant personality to tell her what to do.’

‘Ah . . . And it’s not like any of her friends had the stones to go up against Anthony Chung. Even Dan Fisher, with his unrequited crush, wouldn’t dare. And last time he tried, she scrambled his eggs with her knee.’ Rennie huffed a breath onto his fingernails then polished them on his fuzzy lapel. ‘Oh yeah: I do read the case notes, you know. It’s—’

A horn blared out behind them: a dirty big articulated lorry hissed to a halt six foot from the back of the patrol car, its driver giving them the one-fingered salute.

Logan slammed the door and stepped back onto the pavement.

Rennie pulled away and the lorry grumbled after him.

Chasing down Anthony Chung’s old associates was probably a waste of time, but at least they’d be doing something.

Logan hurried down to the pedestrian crossing, then worked his way across both dual carriageways to the Kwik Fit garage on the corner overlooking Mounthooly.

He popped over the low wall, squeezed between two parked cars in the MOT section. . . Then froze.

A mud-streaked Transit van sat on the forecourt, right outside the entrance. Rusty dents and scrapes marred the once-white paintwork. Reuben’s van.

Time to turn around and—

A low growling voice, right behind him: ‘Get in the van.’

Shite. . .

‘No. Don’t think so.’

A big hairy hand appeared from his left-hand side, it was holding a mobile phone, the screen showing a small photo of Wee Hamish Mowat’s sunken face, below the word ‘CONNECTED’.

OK. . . He took the phone. ‘Hamish? ’

‘Ah, Logan, I’m so glad to hear that you’re all right after your close shave this morning. Do you have a minute to talk? ’

Not really. He took a step forward, then turned to face the mountain of muscle and scar tissue – standing there in his grubby blue boilersuit with a face like cracked stone. ‘Someone cut my brake lines.’