Logan scrolled through the messages on his phone, deleting all the rubbish – most of which came from Steel. ‘Mmm. . .’

‘Exactly.’ Rennie clunked a couple of mugs down on the desk. ‘It’s gone all quiet out there. Think they’ve kissed and made up? Bet they’re at it on one of the cutting tables, getting their forensic anthropology freak on. Jumping each other’s bones.’

No wonder Steel never had any time to do her own paperwork, she was too busy sending pointless text messages. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Logan looked up from the little screen. ‘The ACC still on a rampage? ’

‘Nah, gone home. It’s Her Nibs you’ve got to worry about.’ The kettle rattled away to itself, grumbling steam out into the room. ‘Guv . . . this jewellery heist. . .’

Here we go. Logan put his phone away. ‘You were asleep. We got a confession.’

‘Yeah, but I put in all the work and it’s not—’

‘Never is.’

‘But it isn’t fair. And look at this. . .’ He pulled out his notebook, flipped it open, and held it up. Someone had written ‘FIND THOSE BLOODY TRAMPS, YOU LAZY WEE BAWBAG!!!’ above a list of three names and a crude drawing of male genitalia. The handwriting was obviously Steel’s. Rennie clacked the thing shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘She drew a cock in my notebook. What am I supposed to do if I’ve got to produce it in court? Think the judge’ll be impressed? ’

The kettle clicked, then fell silent.

‘She keeps lumping these crappy make-work jobs on me. How am I going to make my mark, if she keeps—’

‘Make your mark? ’

A blush spread across his cheeks. ‘Well, it’s. . . You know what I mean.’

‘No wonder she drew a dick in your notebook; lucky she didn’t do it on your forehead. Anyway, you should be happy.’

He picked up the kettle and filled the mugs. ‘Ha bloody ha.’

‘She did the same thing to me. In her twisted little mind, it’s her way of singling you out. Testing you.’ Logan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t know how to break it to you, but you’re her favourite.’

Rennie sagged. ‘Oh God. . .’

‘Oh yes. Say goodbye to getting home at a reasonable hour, and hello to bizarre calls in the middle of the night.’

More sagging. ‘And how come I’m the one stuck hunting down tramps? It’s not like Hairy Mary, Scotty Scabs, and Fusty Forman did anything serious: two blokes and an auld wifie shoplifting cheese, bacon, and vodka doesn’t really count as organized crime, does it? ’

‘And you can forget about seeing Emma. But get ready for lots and lots of questions about your sex life, even though you’re never home in time to actually have one.’