“The fucker undercut me. Again,” Hank said. He lit a cigarette and took a long draw on it, as if recalling the memory first required a steadying of the nerves. “Panto auditions. We were both up for the dame.”

“Panto? At the King’s?” asked Logan.

Hank almost choked on his cigarette. “Fuck off, at the King’s! Elaine C. Smith has got that fucker sewn up. I swear, you’ll have to prise that role from the bitch’s cold, dead hands.” He sucked on the cigarette so hard the tip almost spluttered fully into flame. “I mean, a woman playing the dame? Just who the hell does she think she is?”

“Is it no’ always a woman?” Tyler asked, looking up from his pad.

A look passed between Logan and the owner of the flat.

“What?” the DCI asked, the couch crinkling as he turned.

“The dame. In pantos. Widow Twankey, or whatever?” It was clear from Tyler’s expression that he was realising he should have kept his mouth shut, but it was too late now. The damage was already done. “Were they not…? Are they not women?”

“Oh, I like him,” Hank said, pointing with his cigarette. “He’s a keeper, that one.”

Over in the corner, Mulan voiced her disagreement with a couple of shrill barks, but then lay down and curled up in the huff when nobody paid her any notice.

“No, not the King’s. Pavilion,” Hank continued. “It was… fuck, I don’t remember. Cinderella, let’s say. They all blur into one. We were both up for the dame. Some fella from River City was playing Buttons. I’d heard through the grapevine that I was getting it. Grant Stott knew the director, and he’d tipped me the wink.”

“Who’s Grant Stott?” Logan asked.

“I think he’s John Leslie’s brother, boss.”

Logan appeared none the wiser. “Who’s John Leslie?”

“Off the telly. Blue Peter presenter turned alleged sex pest,” Tyler said.

“Oh, aye. Him,” Logan said, dimly recalling the man in question.

“So, anyhoo, I get called into the Pavilion to talk to the casting director,” Hank continued. “I’m skipping in there like I’m in a Bodyform advert. I’m bloody… I’m dancing. I’m literally dancing, thinking I’ve got this one in the bag, but… oh-ho. Who’s this coming out grinning like the cat who got the fucking cream?”

“Archie Sutherland?” Logan guessed.

“Archie bastard Tatties. In the flesh,” Hank confirmed, his face twisting in distaste at the thought of it. “And you know what he says? As he’s passing? You know what the cheeky fucker says? ‘Better luck next time, darling.’” His jaw dropped, the words still shocking him all these months later. “‘Better luck next time,’ he says. ‘Darling,’ he calls me. Can you believe the fucking nerve?”