‘I don’t care if he’s mooned the Queen and shagged her corgis, you can’t just—’

‘See, Mr Mowat says I’m not allowed to kill you, or mutilate you, or hack your balls off and make you eat them. Didn’t say anything about you falling down a few times and breaking something though.’ Reuben turned his scarred smile in Logan’s direction, eyes dark and hooded. ‘Now, you gonnae shut the fuck up, or do I pull this van over? ’

‘You know what, I’m sick and tired of your—’ Logan’s phone burst into Steel’s sinister ringtone. He dragged it out. ‘For God’s sake, what now? ’

‘Where the goat-buggering hell are you? Supposed to be in with Professional Standards getting your bum spanked, no’ gallivanting off—’

As if there weren’t bigger things to worry about. If in doubt: lie. ‘No I’m not.’

‘Aye, you are – I told Rennie specifically to tell you, and he—’

‘Nope, must’ve slipped his mind. Believe it or not, we’ve been a bit busy trying to catch a killer today, so—’

‘Oh no you don’t: you’re the one let her escape in the first place! Now get your arse back here so Professional Standards can spank it.’

‘Can’t. I’m in the middle of something.’

‘Laz, I’m warning you—’

‘Got to go.’ He hung up on her and switched his phone off.

Steel could shout at him later. Assuming he survived whatever the hell this was.

Rowan steps back into the outside catering van’s shadow, the smell of sausages and frying onions thick and dark in the air. The industrial estate sulks on the outskirts of Dyce, a sad collection of corrugated metal buildings with unpronounceable names and chunky logos, ringed in with chainlink fencing. Most aren’t even open: just empty shells with ‘FOR LEASE OR SALE’ signs fastened to the gates.

‘BANGERS AND BAPS’ is painted along the back of the van in big black letters, not that anyone can see it. It’s parked in a lay-by with nothing behind it but trees and weeds.

The Witch wanders across the road, hands in his pockets, chunky headphones sitting on top of his head, lips pursed in a tuneless whistle. Making noise for the sake of it, hauling his jagged aura of red and orange flames behind him. He pauses in front of the van’s menu board and rubs his hands together. Grins. Then pushes the headphones back so they hang around his neck, and goes up to the counter. His accent is half American, half Scottish, his skin the colour of old newspapers. ‘Yeah, can I get a bacon buttie with egg, and a thing of chips? ’

A condemned man’s last meal should be something a bit more special than that, shouldn’t it?