‘Ah, right: here we go. The real reason.’ Logan scrunched the protective gear up into a ball and dumped it in the bin-bag taped to the remains of an Audi. ‘I’m not her keeper, OK? ’

‘You tell that bloody woman to—’

‘I said don’t invite her to Jasmine’s dance recital, but would you listen to me? Noooooo.’

‘—sodding paisley patterned Attila the Hun! And another thing—’

A huge mud-spattered Porsche Cayenne four-by-four growled to a halt on the rutted track, behind the SEB Transit van. Clunk and the headlights went off, leaving the driver illuminated in the glow of the dashboard. Mouth a thin grim line, nostrils flared, eyes screwed into slits. Brilliant, it was going to be one of those evenings.

‘—in the ear with a stick!’

Logan held up a hand and waved at the Porsche. ‘Got to go, Pathologist number two’s up.’

‘Laz, I’m warning you, either—’

He hung up.

Dr Isobel MacAllister stuck both hands against the base of her spine and puffed. Her SOC suit swelled in front, as if she was shoplifting a floor cushion. She hauled back the elasticated hood, showing off a puffy, rose-coloured face framed by a droopy bobbed haircut that looked a lot more functional than glamorous. ‘Did you really just ask for a time of death? ’

DS Chalmers nodded, biro hovering over a blank page in her notebook.

Isobel turned to Logan. ‘She’s new, isn’t she? ’

‘Just transferred down from Northern.’

‘Lord preserve us from the Tartan Bunnet Brigade.’ Isobel unzipped the front of her suit. ‘The body appears to have been necklaced – rubber tyre placed over the head and one arm, making it impossible for the victim to remove, then the outer surface is doused with paraffin and set alight. Death is usually caused by heat and smoke inhalation, leading to shock and heart failure. That can take up to twenty minutes.’ She wiped a hand across her shiny forehead. ‘It’s a popular method of summary execution in some African states.’

DS Chalmers scribbled something in her pad. Then looked up. ‘And Colombia too. I saw this documentary where the cartels would chain the guy up on an overpass, fill the tyre with petrol and light it. Everyone driving home would see them hanging there, burning, so they knew what would happen if they screwed with. . .’ She cleared her throat. ‘Why are you all staring at me? ’

Isobel shook her head. ‘Anyway, I’ve—’

A car horn blared across the clearing.

She stared at the sky for a moment. Gritted her teeth. Tried again: ‘As I was saying, I’ve—’

Breeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

‘Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t get five minutes to myself, can I? Not even five minutes.’ She jabbed a finger in the direction of her Porsche four-by-four, took a deep trembling breath, and let rip. ‘SEAN JOSHUA MILLER-MACALLISTER, YOU STOP THAT THIS INSTANT!’

Silence.