Back in the reception room, Logan closed the door. Two envelopes from a ‘family friend’ of Sandy Moir-Farquharson. Didn’t take a genius to tell who that meant: Wee Hamish Mowat.

Maybe it was a bribe after all – drop the charges against Reuben, and all this could be yours. . .

Logan picked the envelopes up. Weighed them in his hand. Or maybe—

A bang on the door and he flinched hard enough to jump a foot to the right. Then stood there, pulse throbbing in his ears, making his arms itch.

Steel’s voice blared through the wood. ‘Come on, get a shift on: there’s fresh porn getting all cold!’

Logan stuffed the envelopes into his pocket. Well, it wasn’t as if he could just leave them lying about, was it? God knew what was inside. . .

‘. . .and we’re making substantial progress with the enquiry.’ Steel slouched in the passenger seat, one foot up on the dashboard, one arm dangling out of the car window, mobile phone jammed between her ear and her shoulder as she rearranged her bra.

The security guard was a lump of muscle squeezed into a brown polyester shirt. He peered in at Logan, then over at Steel – just in time to catch her digging about in her cleavage with her spare hand.

The guard frowned. ‘You sure she’s police? ’

‘Wish I wasn’t.’ Logan pointed past the barrier at the car park, laid out in front of the two-storey office block. It was crammed with vehicles. ‘Anywhere? ’

‘. . .That’s right, sir, several lines of enquiry are opening up, and now we’ve got that forensic anthropologist on board. . . Yes, thank you, sir, it was a good idea of mine, but I can’t take all the credit.’

Typical.

The security guard checked his clipboard, then took a couple of steps away from the car and spoke into a two-way radio. Whatever he said, it was too quiet to make anything out. Especially with Steel droning away.

‘. . .no, sir, it’s too soon to promise an arrest’s on its way to the media, but between you and me: we’re confident. . . Yes. . . Right. . .’

And then the guard was back, holding a pair of ID cards dangling from fluorescent orange lanyards. He handed them through the window. ‘Make sure your pass is visible at all times. Go round the production block, there’s overflow parking in front of Soundstage One. Five miles an hour, tops.’ He leaned into the car again. ‘Not fifteen, not thirty: five.’

‘Just make sure someone knows we’re coming.’

The parking barrier jerked up and Logan eased the pool car over the threshold into tinsel town. Or what passed for it in the north-east of Scotland.

A pair of big grey warehouses sat behind the office block. Logan followed the road around at a glacial five miles per hour.