‘Mmm. . .’ He didn’t look up. ‘Think I can claim for that bottle of whisky I bought for the Levinston stakeout? ’

‘Being a detective sergeant. OK, so you’ve got to put up with all the crap from the DCs and Uniform – and run around after the DIs like you’re their nanny – but it’s not bad, is it? ’

‘Maybe I can kid on it’s for an informant? ’

Logan swivelled left and right, then back again. The bearings groaned underneath him. Just like the old days. . . ‘You’re not allowed to have unregistered informants: anything Chiz-related would have to go through the Secret Squirrel Squad. Put it down as a teambuilding expense under Finnie’s “Forward To Tomorrow” cost-code. By the time he gets back from Malaga no one will remember what it was meant to be used for anyway.’

‘Ta.’ Bob’s biro scribbled something down on the form.

Logan creaked the seat around in a full circle, drawing his knees in at the last minute to avoid the leg of the desk. ‘See, that’s what I’m talking about: you’re out on stakeouts with a bottle of Glenfiddich, and I’m up to my ears in spreadsheets, cost centres, and budget plans. I remember when—’

‘Yeah, being dragged about, moaned at, and told to do stuff is just great. At least you get a shot at being DI, when’s my go? ’ He grabbed another receipt from the pile and scowled at it. ‘You want anything in particular, or are you just slumming it for fun? ’

‘Going out to the Garfield and Chung houses – fly the flag for community policing.’ Hydraulics go up, hydraulics go down, hydraulics go up.

‘The missing kids? ’ Bob stood and picked a beige corduroy jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Suppose you want me to drive.’

Logan stopped playing with the chair. Narrowed his eyes. ‘What did you have for lunch? ’

Bob pulled the jacket on. ‘Why? ’

‘Bob. . .? ’

‘Cauliflower and lentil curry from that wee place on Belmont Street.’

Which explained the Post-it note on the door.

‘In that case, you can stay here and finish your expenses. No way I’m sharing a car with you.’

‘That’s discrimination.’

‘Self-bloody-preservation more like.’

The Wee Hoose’s door opened and DS Chalmers marched in, carrying a stack of printouts, glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She smiled. ‘Keeping it warm for me? ’ Pause. ‘The chair? ’ Then dumped the paper on the desk behind him.

Right: not his chair any more. Not his desk. He stood. ‘It’s your lucky day, Chalmers – instead of sitting here being gassed to death by Biohazard Bob, I’m rescuing you. Grab your jacket, we’ve got parents to visit.’