He was ex-special forces, though, and while his time behind a desk or in a bottle during his latter years at the polis had padded out his middle and rounded off his chin, he’d spent the last several months sculpting it away again. Were it not for the thinning hair and perpetual scowl-lines etched as wrinkles into his face, he could’ve passed for a man half his age.

Well, maybe two-thirds.

He was a dangerous man. He’d always been a dangerous man. Logan didn’t want him in his office any longer than was absolutely necessary.

Besides, he’d been the one to track down Tyler at the weekend, and avert a potential wedding disaster. Logan owed him something for that, if nothing else.

“If I say yes, will you leave?”

“You think I want to sit around here looking at your face any longer than I fucking have to?”

“Fine. When do you need it?”

Hoon checked his watch. “Half ten.”

“What? Today?”

“Naw, Jack. Half ten on Christmas morning,” Hoon sneered. “Of course today. Why else would I be gracing you with my presence if it wasn’t urgent? Fuck’s sake. Are you sure you’re cut out for the polis, Jack?”

Logan held his hands up. “Fine. I’ll do it in a minute. But you’re not waiting here while I write it.”

“Too fucking true I’m not,” Hoon said, getting to his feet. He leaned over the desk, dipped a finger in a blob of egg yolk that lay cooling on the paper, then rubbed it on his gums like he was testing the purity. “Where’s that from? Across the road?”

Logan regarded the fingerpint in the yolk blob for a few moments, then raised his head and glowered at his old boss. “Aye. That’s right,” he said. “Now, do us both a favour, Bob, and tell me where to send this reference, then piss off out of my office.”

A business card was placed face down on the desk between them. “Email address is on there,” Hoon said. “Needs to be there at half ten at the latest. At the fucking latest.”

Logan reached for the card, but Hoon pinned it beneath an egg-stained finger. “Wait until I’ve gone,” he said, and for perhaps the first time Logan could recall, the words coming out of Hoon’s mouth sounded more of a request than an instruction.

He leaned back in his chair and shrugged. “Right. Fine. I’ll email it. Was that everything, or did you want to hurl some more abuse at me for a while?”

“Hurl abuse? You’ll fucking know when I hurl abuse, Jack. I’ll hurl it so hard it’ll punch a hole right through that saggy-titted chest of yours. This is just friendly banter,” Hoon said. He tapped the business card. “So. Half ten, aye? At the latest?”