Cheaper and quicker than sodding about with scaffolding.

Five minutes later, the cherry-picker was trundling along the tarmac, driven by a pug-faced man in a set of council overalls and a high-vis vest. A massive black moustache covered his upper lip, drooping down on either side in a permanent hairy scowl.

Steel held up her hand. ‘All right, Sunshine, that’s far enough. We’ll take it from here.’

He stopped the cherry-picker, but didn’t get out. His voice was a hard-core Teuchter drawl. ‘You certified to drive one of these, quine? ’Cos if you’re not, you’re not driving it. Health and safety.’

‘Who’re you calling “quine”? ’ She stuck her chest out. ‘I’m a detective chief bloody inspector, and—’

‘I dinna care if you’re the Queen’s proctologist, no one’s driving this thing without a cert from the council.’ A nod. ‘Health and Safety’d have my arse in a buttie.’

She scowled at him, pulled the fake cigarette from her pocket, clicked it on, stuck it in her mouth, and sooked on it a couple of times. A puff of steam dissipated in the warm summer air. ‘Right, someone get Burt Reynolds here an SOC suit. He’s our new chauffeur.’

‘Aye, aye. . .’ Burt Reynolds and his amazing moustache leaned out over the edge of the cherry-picker’s railing, gazing down at the roof of Logan’s caravan. ‘There’s a sight you don’t see every day.’

The cherry-picker’s basket was at least eighteen feet off the ground, high enough to give a good view of the whole roof. It rocked slightly as Steel and Logan moved over to get a better look.

Steel grabbed the handrail. ‘This thing safe? ’

‘Once found a skull when we were digging up a road outside Rhynie. Fat Doug wanted to take it home for an ashtray. He was aye a bit strange.’

The yellow-grey bones were laid out on the flat roof like some sort of art installation: a toothless skull resting above crossed femurs, the bottom jaw on the other side, then the pelvis and sternum, all held within a rough circle made up of ribs and vertebrae. Little piles of soil dotted the roof around it.

Logan pointed. ‘Can’t have been there for long. There’s no moss or anything growing on them.’

‘Ah.’ Burt Reynolds from the council nodded. ‘Maybe it’s Keith Richards? ’

Steel shrugged. ‘If it is, he’s lost weight.’ Then she hit Logan on the arm. ‘Told you it wasn’t Reuben.’

‘How can you possibly—’

‘This is way too frou-frou.’ A sniff. ‘Besides, the lardy sod would’ve gone through the roof like Ann Widdecombe in a brothel.’

The downstream monitoring suite had been given a fresh coat of magnolia since last time, so now it was miserable, pokey, and stank of paint fumes. Logan wedged the door open with one of the plastic chairs. ‘Better? ’