‘Ah. Right.’ Rennie backed out into the corridor again, pointing towards the cutting room. ‘I’ll fill the kettle, get it on, and we can all . . . have a nice cuppa.’

Logan waited until the door closed behind him. ‘Are you OK? ’

A sniff. ‘No. That’s the point.’ He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. ‘I can’t do this any more. All the pain and the suffering and the relatives and the press and the courts and the bloody press. . .’

A smile. ‘You said “press” twice.’

‘Did you know they doorstepped me for that Rubislaw Den murder? Right outside my house. I was taking Natasha to playgroup. . .’ He dumped a box file in on top of some pilfered Post-it notes. ‘I’ve tried so hard to keep what I do separate, and they do something like that? ’ He wiped his hand across his cheeks, then dried it on the leg of his trousers. ‘And the smell. I wash and I wash and I wash and it never comes off. . .’

Logan nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

A knock came from the office door. Dr Ramsey was blinking at them from the corridor. ‘Turns out some shoplifter’s fallen down the stairs in the custody block.’ He pointed over his shoulder, back towards the bulk of FHQ. ‘If Tweedledee and Tweedledum ever stop shouting at each other, let me know.’

‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Anthropologists. . .’ Ramsey rolled his eyes, then sloped off, shoes scuffing on the floor.

Dr Forsyth hurled another manila folder into the box, following it up with one more for every word: ‘Just – can’t – take it – any more.’ He picked the box up, cradling it in his arms as if it were a severed head. ‘And all the time they’re telling us to cut costs, as if what we do is. . .’ He trembled, flecks of spittle frothing in the corners of his mouth. ‘Like we’re sitting about drinking coffee from golden mugs and eating bloody chocolates.’ A shrug. ‘Sorry. It’s just. . .’

He lowered his head and shuffled from the room. As he opened the door, the raised voices came through again:

‘Oh, don’t give me that, Graham, you’ve always been jealous of my success!’

‘I’m not arguing with you about this, Dempsey. I was here first.’

Dr Forsyth looked back over his shoulder. ‘Please. . .’ A frown. ‘Tell Isobel I stuck it for as long as I could.’

‘It’s my bloody job! Now pack up and bugger off!’

‘My life coach says I have to—’

‘Life coach? What kind of bloody idiot—’

The door clunked shut again.

Rennie backed into the room, carrying the kettle in one hand and a packet of Jaffa Cakes in the other. He waggled the orange-and-blue box at Logan. ‘Creepy Dalrymple didn’t lock her locker. What’s the point of hiding things in your locker if you don’t lock it? ’ He stuck the kettle onto its base and flicked the switch. ‘Clue’s in the name.’