He put the book down again. Stared out of the window for a bit.

Sim cleared her throat. ‘Guv? ’

Wasn’t like someone like Chalmers to just fall off the map, was it? An ambitious career-obsessed go-getter like her? No: she was the brown-nosing and hard-work type. The type who wouldn’t take a sick day if her leg fell off.

Not unless she’d done something really stupid. . .

‘Guv, do you need me, or can I—’

‘Get your coat. We’re going round.’

The trees on Jasmine Terrace trembled in the wind, dusty dark-green leaves hissing against each other. Sim stood in a lonely blade of sunlight, one hand holding onto her black bowler as she stared up at Chalmers’s flat.

The other side of the road was a long terrace of traditional granite buildings, but Chalmers’s place was part of a slightly more modern block, set back from the cobbles behind a rectangle of parched grass. Three storeys with a flat roof and Dutch-barn-style upper floor. Four units, with six flats in each. Only a five-minute walk from FHQ.

Logan stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Anything? ’

‘Nope.’ Sim tried the intercom again. Waited for a bit. Then stepped back to watch the top-floor flat. ‘Maybe she’s not in? ’

Maybe. . .

Logan pressed the ‘SERVICES’ button, holding it down until someone got fed up of the noise and buzzed them in.

It was nice inside. Clean. He followed Sim up to the top floor.

The door to flat number five had a sticky label underneath the doorbell: ‘LORNA CHALMERS’.

Sim thumbed it and a grating drrrrrrrrrrrrrrring! sounded on the other side of the door followed by a long high-pitched yowl. She hunkered down, levered the letterbox open, and peered inside. ‘Mail on the doormat. . . Oh, hello, puss. Who’s a pretty boy or girl then? ’

The yowling got louder.

‘Guv? ’

Logan squatted down beside her, sniffing at the letterbox. Something floral and plasticky, a hint of pine that could’ve been disinfectant? At least it didn’t smell as if anything – or anyone – was rotting away in there. ‘Try the neighbours, see if anyone’s got a key.’

As soon as Sim was off knocking on doors, Logan pulled out his phone and called Control. ‘Does DS Chalmers own a car? ’

‘Hud oan. . .’ The nasal Aberdonian accent faded away, replaced by the sound of a rattling keyboard. ‘Aye: it’s a Mini, you want the number plate? ’

Logan jotted it down in his notebook. ‘I want a lookout request on her and her vehicle. And get me a GSM trace on her mobile.’

More keyboard noises. ‘Fit’s she done? ’

‘Hopefully, nothing stupid. Now put me on to DS Rennie.’

‘He’s no’ in the office, but give us a mintie. . .’

A bleep, a pause, another bleep, then Rennie was on the line. ‘Hello? Guv? ’

‘Did Chalmers say anything to you last night? ’

A sigh. ‘How come it’s always “Chalmers, this”, “Chalmers, that” with—’