‘Anything about where she was going? Any ideas she had about where Agnes Garfield was? ’

‘You really think she’d tell me? God forbid she’d have to share the glory. Tell you, she’s—’

‘Did she talk about the case at all? ’

Sim bounded back up the stairs, holding a Yale key aloft like the Olympic torch. ‘Old lady in flat three had one. Says she hasn’t seen Chalmers since yesterday morning.’

‘All she ever did was ask questions. All take, take, take, and no—’

Logan took the phone from his ear and slapped a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Open it.’

‘But we don’t have a warrant, and. . .’ Sim scrunched up one side of her face. ‘Ah, got you: yes, I think I can smell gas. Someone inside might be in difficulty!’ She stuck the key in the lock, twisted, then stepped inside.

Back on the phone, Logan followed her. ‘What did she ask about? ’

‘Usual. Kept going on about the Anthony Chung murder. Said we must’ve missed something. As if! Wouldn’t stop nagging me till I gave her the interview transcripts from when we spoke to the house buyers.’

The ones Logan had just read.

‘And it’s not like there’s anything in there – none of them knew Anthony Chung or Agnes Garfield, and they’ve all got alibis. Complete waste of time.’

Logan bent down and picked up the mail from the mat. Mostly fliers from charities, a leaflet from the local Tory candidate – nothing like blinkered optimism – what looked like a council tax bill, and two copies of the Aberdeen Examiner. Yesterday’s and today’s. ‘Maybe the estate agent’s left someone off the list? ’

‘Nah, got the guy who works there to show me the files. Everyone who’s seen that place was on there.’ A sniff. ‘You want me to do anything? ’

‘Yes: find your missing tramp.’ Logan hung up on him and slid the phone back in his pocket.

Sim appeared from the flat’s kitchen, carrying a ginger tabby in her arms. Its stripy tail lashed back and forth as it glowered at him. ‘Poor thing must’ve been starved.’

‘Any sign of a disturbance? ’

She shook her head. ‘Wish my place was this tidy.’ The cat wriggled, legs sticking out at random angles. She let it down and it charged away into another room. ‘Plates washed in the kitchen, bed’s made, all the magazines are lined up on the coffee table.’

Logan followed the cat through to a small double bedroom. It disappeared under the bed. Sim was right: everything was tidy and ordered. Which was quite an achievement, given that Chalmers had only transferred down from Northern Constabulary a couple of weeks ago. Any normal person would still be living out of boxes.