Scowl. ‘Don’t change the subject. You, Logan Bum-Face McRae, need to get your act sorted. Being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place, arresting people and getting punched in the nose: it’s about taking a strategic overview, staying in FHQ at the centre of your wee web of influence and organizing things, making the best use of the available manpower. And solving bloody cases!’

‘Like you ever—’

‘Now get your backside in gear and go see those poor missing kids’ parents!’

Silence settled into the room, then a hiss and click as Steel’s electric cigarette gave another puff of steam.

‘What happened to, “being a DI’s no’ about running all over the place”? ’

‘Parents need to see a senior officer, no’ some junior idiot in uniform wiping their nose on their sleeves. And if you’d done something about it in the first sodding place, you wouldn’t be in this mess.’ She chucked his warrant card back at him. ‘Now sod off before I decide to motivate you some more.’

In the main CID office a lone detective constable was bent over the fax machine, cursing and swearing as she pounded away at the keypad. Other than her, the place was deserted: most of the dayshift would be down at their lockers already, getting changed to go home – or hiding so they wouldn’t have to answer the phones and get dragged into anything at five to five on a Sunday evening – while the backshift were off actually doing things, leaving the little corrals of chest-high partitions and scuffed beech desks to sulk unloved beneath stacks of forms and reports, empty sandwich wrappers and dirty mugs.

Logan tried the small walled-off annex at the side of the room – the one with a brass plaque mounted on the door: ‘THE WEE HOOSE’. Someone had stuck a Post-it note to the thing, with ‘CONDEMNED FOR PUBLIC HEALTH REASONS!’ scrawled across it.

Inside, DS Bob Marshall was frowning at a pile of receipts and an expenses form. His desk looked as if a stationery cupboard had thrown up on it. A big orange-and-black biohazard sign was mounted on the wall in front of him. As if anyone actually needed any warning. . .

The other three desks were almost tidy, no sign of their owners, just the shelves laden with box files and manuals, the whiteboards covered with case lists for each DS complete with notes and dates.

Bob scribbled something down on his form. ‘If you’re here to moan about them not catching Reuben yet: don’t. It’s sod all to do with me.’

Logan slumped into his old familiar chair, the one with the wobbly castor and the creaky hydraulic thing, and the coffee stain on the seat that always made it look as if he’d had an unfortunate accident. Loved that chair. He ran a hand along the rough plastic armrest. ‘You’re a jammy sod, Bob.’