A sniff. A thinning of the lips. Then she jabbed a finger at Logan. ‘If he’d done his job when he came here, instead of drinking tea and eating my biscuits, she’d be home by now.’ A nod. Agnes’s mum backed out of the room and slammed the door.

‘Pffffff. . .’ Logan sank down on the single bed. The wooden frame creaked, the mattress sagging beneath him. ‘Before you say anything, it was DI McPherson. Sent me out here, told me to poke about a bit, reassure them, then get back to solving actual crimes. Course, then he gets seconded to the Scottish Parliament on the Force Integration Project – as if they didn’t have enough bloody numpties screwing things up already – and hey presto, suddenly it’s my problem.’

He glanced up. . . The roof was covered in pale-yellowy-green and white stars. Had to be hundreds of them up there, filling the ceiling from edge to edge. Oh to be young and daft again.

Chalmers poked her way through the bookshelves. ‘Whenever my mother hated any of my boyfriends, it just made them more appealing. Even Hamish Campbell with his big teeth and stickie-out ears. Dad hated him too, and after that I’d have run away with him in a heartbeat. . .’

The bedside cabinet contained a mix of hankies, granny-pants, and a tiny collection of cheap jewellery – each piece individually wrapped in tissue paper. Logan slid the last drawer back into place, then pushed aside the little troupe of fluffy toy animals to peer into the gap between the mattress and the wall. Nothing.

‘What you looking for? ’

‘A diary. Address book. Something like that.’

Thump. A black leather journal landed on the duvet. It was held shut with a black ribbon.

Logan picked it up, weighed it in his hand. ‘Where was it? ’

Chalmers pointed at the bookcase. ‘Top shelf, next to the collected Roald Dahl.’

Left in full view, where anyone could find it? Bizarre.

He undid the ribbon and flicked through the pages to the last entry. It was dated three weeks ago, the day before she disappeared. He held it out. ‘Read.’