It was presumably some sort of style statement, Logan thought. Although, beyond ‘I like red and black,’ he had no idea what that statement might be.

The couch they’d been invited to sit on looked more comfortable than it actually was. It was made of some sort of plasticky fake leather material, and it crinkled beneath them as they tried to find a way of sitting that wouldn’t eventually see them sliding off onto the floor.

Although, given how thick the pile on the carpet was, the floor might have been a better choice.

The room—the whole flat, in fact—was stale with the smell of cigarette smoke. It hung in the air, floating around at head height, drifting like long strings of cloud.

“I’m assuming Fellatio is a stage name, then?” Logan asked.

“I can see why they made you a detective. Yes, that is correct. Ms McFudd is my alter ego,” the man in the baggy jumper replied, with a theatrical bow. “You may call me Hank. Hank Wanamaker.”

It was as fake a name as the other one, Logan reckoned, but he chose not to question it for the moment.

“Good to meet you, Mr Wanamaker,” he said.

He introduced himself and Tyler, received a slightly snidey, “Charmed, I’m sure,” for his trouble, then got down to business.

“Tell me, Hank… Can I call you Hank?”

“You can call me whatever you like,” he replied. It was the sort of line Logan would’ve expected to be delivered with a smile and a wink, but instead, there was a flatness to it. A resignation of some kind, like the man was reciting lines he’d long ago grown tired of.

Logan smiled. “Right. Hank, then,” he said. “Tell me, Hank, when was the last time you saw Archie Sutherland?”

An eye twitched. A beat was skipped.

“Who?”

“Archie Sutherland. Maybe you know him better Archie Tatties? Most people do.”

“Oh,” Hank replied, in a tone that strongly implied a silent, “That piece of shit,” at the end. “Tatties? I don’t know. A while.”

“Can you be more precise?” Logan asked.

Hank’s mouth tightened, like he was sucking all the plaque off his teeth. “June twenty-sixth last year. Eleven-twenty-two. In the morning.”

“That’s very specific,” Logan said.

“Yes, well, you don’t forget the time someone stabs you in the back, do you?” Hank spat. “Should’ve seen it coming, of course. Not like he hasn’t done it, like, fifty times before.”

Logan checked to make sure that Tyler was writing, and instead found him locked in some sort of staring contest with the dog that now sat in the corner. He gave the DC a nudge with his elbow, and waited until he’d fished out his notepad before continuing with his questions.

“What happened?”