Rennie took a deep breath and came back twice as loud. ‘I said, the house at Rickarton is clear. Steel’s got the other four-man team on their way to the place outside Stonehaven. But it’s rush hour, so—’

‘What about the other two houses? ’

‘Sorry, Guv. We’re going as fast as we can.’

Sim tapped Logan on the shoulder as the car rolled through yet another outbreak of gravel-edged pits in the track. ‘There it is.’

House number two on the north-west of Aberdeen list was an ancient-looking farmhouse set back from the road, partially screened by a patchy beech hedge, the front garden a thicket of weeds. The walls were leper grey, the gable end streaked with rust from a buckled TV antenna. One chimney was missing a chunk off the corner and the slate roof was speckled with yellow lichen. Narrow dark windows glowered out at the surrounding fields. Behind it, a massive steading conversion was all fresh pointing and neat double glazing.

A bright green Willox and Smith ‘FOR SALE’ sign was driven into the jungle of dockens and brambles.

‘Get your team over to the next house and let me know if there’s any sign of Chalmers.’ Logan hung up and put his phone away.

Sim parked the car at the overgrown entrance to a small gravel drive. ‘No sign of a Mini.’

Well, they weren’t going to just leave it outside, were they?

He climbed out of the Fiat. The weeds in the driveway were partially flattened, as if a vehicle had been left there. . . Or they’d used it to reverse and turn around on the appalling track.

Sim joined him, pulling on her bowler. ‘What do you think? ’

‘Someone’s been here.’ He pointed. ‘See the trampled path through the weeds to the front door? ’

‘Unless it was sheep? ’

She unhooked the pepper-spray from her utility belt and handed it over. Then snapped out her extendable baton. ‘You want the front or the back? ’

Thistles and nettles bound together around the side of the property. All spiky and stingy. Logan fiddled with the pepper-spray. ‘Think I’ll . . . take the front.’

Sim sagged slightly. ‘Poop.’ Then she straightened up and waded her way through the undergrowth, elbows up at shoulder height, keeping her hands out of the danger zone.

Grass and broken dandelions squeaked under his shoes as he picked his way to the front door, hauling on a pair of blue nitrile gloves.

A scrunching crash sounded from the other side of the house, followed by, ‘Oh . . . pooping, bum-pooping poop!’

Logan peered in through the front window. The glass was thick with dirt, but there was enough light to see a mildew-speckled front room, the wallpaper peeling away in one corner and stained with damp. No furniture, just marks in the swirly seventies-style carpet where it used to be. The other front window was pretty much the same.