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the same as a decent childminder.’ A scowl. ‘Or a thieving au pair.’
    ‘What do I look like, made of money? ’ DCI Steel’s voice echoed around the office. ‘DNA’s still our best bet – you don’t get bumped off like that in a mob hit and not be dirty.’
    ‘But a forensic anthropologist—’
    ‘No. N.O. spells: “shut up and stop bugging me about forensic anthropologists.”’ She slumped back in her office chair. ‘Take the sodding hint.’
    ‘But Isobel—’
    ‘I don’t care if the Ice Queen wants raspberry ripple ice cream with brown sauce and gherkins, we’re waiting for the DNA.’ Steel scrubbed at her face with her hands. ‘He’ll be in the system.’
    Ah well, can’t say he hadn’t tried.
    ‘What about Reuben? ’
    She narrowed her eyes. ‘What about him? ’
    For God’s sake. ‘Have they picked him up yet? ’
    ‘Do you really think I’ve no’ got more important things to worry about than who punched you on the bloody nose? You probably deserved it.’ She held up a hand, thumb and forefinger squeezed tightly together. ‘Hell, I’m this far away from doing it myself!’
    ‘Thanks. Thanks for the support. Really appreciate it.’ Logan marched out of her office and slammed the door behind him. ‘Cow.’
    ‘I heard that!’
    Of course she did. Ears like a bloody vampire bat. He stuck two fingers up at the wood.
    The corridor funnelled the noise from the main CID room, open-plan muttering and barely controlled chaos. Greasy coils of garlic, salami, and cheese tentacled through the air carrying with them the ghosts of pizzas past. His stomach gurgled.
    Somewhere, deep within his head, someone was doing a Steve McQueen impersonation from the Great Escape , hurling that bloody baseball against the walls of the cooler. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
    He turned his back on the siren scent and slouched through to his own office instead. A lanky figure with sticky-up blond hair was draped all over the visitor’s chair, feet up on Logan’s desk. Eyes closed, head back, mouth hanging open, making little grunting noises.
    Logan opened one of the filing cabinet drawers, then slammed it shut.
    ‘Gaaah!’ DS Rennie jerked upright in his seat, eyes like nervous pingpong balls, jittering feet sending a pile of forms scattering to the carpet. ‘I’m awake, I’m awake.’
    ‘What are you still doing here? ’ The old office chair creaked as Logan settled into it. ‘You were snoring.’
    Rennie stretched: arms up to the ceiling, legs hovering an inch over the tabletop. ‘You’ve been ages. . .’
    ‘Post mortem.’ What the hell happened to his desk? The whole thing was covered in other people’s paperwork. Why did every lazy sod in CID think this was the perfect place to dump their crap? ‘Now get your bloody feet off my desk.’
    ‘Sorry, Guv.’ Rennie screwed the palm of one hand into his eye socket, yawned again, shuddered, then sagged in the chair like someone had stolen all of his bones. ‘Went through all the witness statements and CCTV footage from the jewellery heist: three males, all in their late teens – early twenties. Local accents. Initial getaway car from the scene was a VW Golf.’ He hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his armpits. ‘Cold in here.’
    Logan picked the forms up from the floor, added them to the rest, then started separating them out into piles for whoever touched them last. ‘Number plate? ’
    ‘Fake. Well, not fake-fake – they’d nicked it off a blue Citroën Berlingo in Mannofield.’ Another yawn. ‘Bet you a fiver they abandoned the Golf and torched it before going on in a second car. So we’ll get nothing off it, even if we can find. . .’ He blinked at Logan, then frowned. ‘What? ’ Brushed a hand across his cheek. ‘Have I got pizza on my face? ’
    ‘We found a burned-out VW Golf in the Joyriders’ Graveyard: reported stolen Saturday morning – last seen by the owner, Friday tea-time. It was still