“Aye, but there’s an honesty in that, too. It’s no’ saying, ‘Just you leave your wallet on the table and it’ll be there when you get back from the toilet.’ It’s saying, ‘We will not think twice about robbing you blind.’” He grimaced as he forced down the blob of stringy meat. “That’s honest, too, in its own way. A place like this might smash you in the face with a claw hammer, but it won’t stab you in the back.”

“That’s… comforting, I suppose.”

Logan took a sip of something that had laughably been described as ‘fresh lemonade’ but tasted more like the gas had gone on the Schweppes tap.

“The same doesn’t apply to the punters, mind,” he pointed out. “They’ll stab you in the back without a second thought.”

Tyler scanned the bar. “That doesn’t come as a surprise.”

What did come as a surprise—both to Tyler, and, if the DCI were honest, himself—was Logan pronging his fork through another bit of the beef that swam in the grey sludge on his plate, and then shoving the meat in his mouth. He chewed quickly before he could overthink it, and distracted himself from the texture by moving the conversation on.

“Any idea why we’re here?” he asked.

Tyler looked down at his plate. “Am I being punished for something, boss?”

Logan shook his head. “When I’m punishing you for something, you’ll know about it,” he said. “One of those names Ms McFudd gave us—Shuggie Cowan…” He made a circling motion with his knife. “…owns this place. That’s him sitting in the far corner. Don’t look.”

Tyler had already started to look, so continued sweeping his gaze up towards the ceiling, where it lingered for an unnaturally long time on an utterly unremarkable light fitting. He nodded once, like he was giving the thing his approval, then turned his attention back to his meal.

“Don’t think he saw me, boss,” he muttered.

He hadn’t exactly seen the man in the corner, but he’d managed to get an impression of him. He was half-hidden behind a pillar at the table furthest from the door. He was older, Tyler thought. There had been a suggestion of grey as his eyes had flitted past, anyway. Not a small man either, he reckoned, but he resisted the urge to double-check.

“Is he, like, a gangster or something?”

Logan raised his knife and fork up and down, like he was weighing them in his hands. “Aye. Or something. Or he was. Supposedly on the straight and narrow now, but… we’ll see.”

“We going to talk to him?”

Something in the ball of meat went crunch. Logan ignored it and continued chewing. “Maybe, aye. Eventually. For now, I’m just enjoying my lunch.”