Tyler smiled. “Good one, boss.”

“And I don’t want you busting a nut to get back,” Logan continued.

“How long did it take you to think them up?” the DC asked.

“Half the bloody night,” Logan admitted. “I tried to come up with a third—something about hitting the sack, maybe—but I couldn’t get it to work.”

“Points for effort though, boss. And the Hitler one was good.”

“Cheers.” Logan raised his glass and they chinked them across the table. “You’re going to be alright, Tyler. You’re too much of a jammy bastard for this to—”

A shadow fell across the detectives. Quite a large shadow, at that. They both slowly raised their gazes to find three man-shaped sacks of testosterone towering over them. The men had been poured into black trousers and white shirts, with black ties pulled tightly in an attempt to keep their necks from bursting out of their collars.

“Yous polis?” asked the one at the front, in a tone that suggested the answer to that question had better be a resounding, “No.” Or, preferably, “No, sir.”

He looked almost identical to the other two—same sloping forehead, same blubbery-lipped scowl—but Logan reckoned if you cut him open and counted the rings he’d turn out to be a few years older than the other two.

Logan didn’t see the worried glance from Tyler, but he felt its sting. “Who’s asking?” he said.

This caused some visible confusion among the men, until the man standing back and to the left finally formulated a response. “We are,” he said.

“No, I can see that, pal,” Logan said. The words were friendly, but the tone was not. “I mean who are you three, exactly?”

It was the man at the front who replied. “Just answer the question. You polis?”

Logan’s gaze switched from the one on the left to the one in the middle. “What’s with the conversation jumping around? You three sharing a brain or something here?” he asked, then he pointed to the guy on the right. “When does he get a shot?”

“Seth!”

All eyes but Logan’s went to the corner, where the pub’s owner had a hand raised. Some signal passed between him and the three brutes. When the frontmost member of the group spoke again, it was in a less confrontational tone. “Are you Logan?” he asked.

“That I am,” the DCI replied. “Your boss want to see me, does he?”

He stood up suddenly, and the men took a step back like they really were one collective entity. Their movements weren’t quick, though. There was no flinching, or clenching of fists. These were not men who were easily intimidated.

“Jack Logan. You brass-necked bastard,” said the man half-hidden in the corner. His voice was not loud, but it carried across the now almost-silent pub. “You’ve got some bloody nerve coming in here.”