Logan reached into his jacket and pulled out the red leather notebook from the cupboard. Stuck it on the dashboard. ‘Found that, hidden in one of the hollowed-out books.’

She gave a small, one-shouldered shrug. ‘What is it? ’

‘Some sort of witchcrafty journal thing. Got magic circles and things. . . Hello? ’

The voice of Control was back. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes what? ’

‘Yes he was picked up an hour ago by Alpha Three Nine. Was in the Burning Buck, absolutely plastered. They’re checking him every fifteen minutes to make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit.’

Chance would be a fine thing.

‘Give it a bit, then stick him in interview room three. We’ll be back in. . .’ Five minutes to traverse Kintore, half an hour to mollify Anthony Chung’s parents, call it another twenty minutes from there back into town. . . ‘Make it an hour.’

Pause. ‘Yeah, you better take that up with the desk sergeant.’ And she was gone.

Chalmers picked the book off the dashboard, weighing it in her hand as she drove. ‘Agnes knows her mum and dad are checking up on her, so maybe she keeps a fake diary in the bedroom where they can find it, and a real one in the cupboard under the stairs.’

‘Read it. And call the Procurator Fiscal: I want a GSM trace authorized on Agnes and Anthony’s mobile phones. Then get on to every hospital in Scotland – tell them to look out for attempted suicides.’

‘Can you imagine someone watching you all the time like that, never giving you any privacy? I’d have run away years ago.’

The last-known address for Anthony Chung – before he ran away to rescue his girlfriend from her demented overbearing mother – occupied a corner plot in a swanky development on the southern edge of Kintore. Big houses with big gardens and big cars parked outside. The Chung residence even had a set of wrought-iron gates, mounted on sandstone pillars, but there was nothing behind them – the driveway was empty.

Chalmers pulled up at the kerb. Left the motor running. ‘Not looking good, is it? ’

Logan climbed out into the sunshine.

The whumping blades of a helicopter thrummed from somewhere over Kirkhill Forest; a child’s happy squealing came from nearby, punctuated by the high-pitched yip of a small dog; the distant bagpipe drone of a lawnmower. Tuneless whistling from the man three houses down as he washed his Range Rover Sport.

Logan opened the gate and marched up the drive. A portico jutted out of the building, making a little rectangle of shade from the sun. He pressed the button on the intercom and classical music sounded deep within the house, followed by a dog barking. Something big, with lots of teeth.

A minute later, Ravel’s Bolero faded away. Still nothing from the intercom. But the hell-hound sounded like a gun going off, over and over again.

Logan gave the bell another try.