‘Oh. . .’ She frowned out of the window, scratching at the side of one boob. ‘Well . . . look on the bright side. I’ll tell people the info was yours if the raids come off OK.’

Logan stared at her. ‘Raids? ’

A cough. ‘Thought you were playing silly buggers. So . . . I’ve got Leith raiding the house in Westhill, and Ding-Dong’s doing the one in Blackburn. At least it’ll keep them from twatting each other.’

‘Thanks. Thanks a bloody heap.’

She stopped scratching and pointed at him. ‘Well, you should’ve told me, shouldn’t you? Instead of sneaking about.’

He folded forward until his forehead was resting on the badly typed transcript. ‘God forbid I get any of the bloody credit. . .’

‘Don’t moan, it’s your own fault. Now where are we with Agnes Garfield? ’

‘And how come Ding-Dong’s not suspended? I should be the one raiding the place, it was my—’

Something bounced off the back of Logan’s head. He straightened up. Steel was scrunching another sheet of A4 into a ball.

She lobbed it at him. Missed. ‘Focus: Agnes Garfield.’

‘Got patrol cars trawling Mastrick. So far, no sign.’

‘She’s sodded off, that’s why. The one chance we’ve had to grab her, and you let her go.’

‘Don’t start. Got enough of that from Napier. We didn’t have any choice – it was too short notice to set anything up. If your bloody firearms team hadn’t sodded off with the keys to the armoury—’

‘Blah, blah, blah.’ Steel took one last puff on her fake cigarette, then pulled it from her mouth and twisted the end till it clicked. ‘When our delightful colleagues from Strathclyde do their review of this morning’s fiasco, try and no’ make it look like we can’t pee in a bucket without someone getting stabbed, eh? ’

‘It wasn’t my fault!’

She pushed away from the windowsill and ambled towards the door, hands in her pockets. ‘Might be an idea to sod off out of it for a bit. Let the dust settle. Maybe . . . oh, I don’t know . . . have a bash at catching Agnes Garfield for a change? ’

Logan did her the honour of a full two-finger salute.

‘So,’ Logan leaned back against the cell wall, ‘Professor Marks: how’s it going? ’

What was left of the psychologist’s hair stuck out in random directions from the circumference of his big bald pate; his eyes two dark holes in a pale face; two fingers covered in brown scabs where he’d been picking at them. ‘I. . . I got them to call you because . . . because I want to cooperate.’

A bit late for that, given Goulding had already done them a profile, but what the hell. ‘Have you now? ’

‘They keep putting loud people in the cells next to mine. Swearing and singing and shouting. . .’