Even seated, every part of him was moving. His feet danced to some mystery rhythm only he could hear. His head jerked from side to side every few seconds, like he had water in both ears and was trying to shake it free.

His face was an animator’s showreel of tics, and twitches, and sniffs. Just looking at the bastard was exhausting.

Logan took a moment to size things up before making his move. It didn’t take him long. He’d been doing risk assessments on places like these since long before the thought of joining the polis had first entered his head.

There were seven of them in all. Two groups—Frankie and two other men, then three younger guys and a girl in her late teens who seemed to be simultaneously revelling in and getting bored by their attention.

The younger group looked like opportunists, Logan thought. They’d only jump into a fight if they knew they were guaranteed to win it. A couple of the lads had already spotted Logan, and after some quick calculations of their odds, had quickly looked away.

They’d only be a problem if things went very wrong, or if they thought they could impress the lassie. Given that she was unlikely to be impressed by them getting their teeth handed back to them in a bloody hankie, though, Logan was choosing not to worry about them too much.

Frankie’s group was another story. One of them sat on the swing beside him, his stoicism in stark contrast to Frankie’s endless fidgeting. He was a solid lump of a man, easily Logan’s height and perhaps taller still. He’d caught sight of the detectives as they’d approached along the path, and after a cursory look at Tyler had targeted his gaze on the DCI and hadn’t blinked since.

Logan was less worried about the third man. He was about Tyler’s age, Tyler’s height, and Tyler’s build. He perched right on the middle column of a slowly rotating roundabout, his head back so he could look straight up at the spinning sky. He was smiling, but there was a queasiness there, like he might throw up at any moment.

Something else he and DC Neish had in common, then.

“You Frankie?” Logan asked.

Frankie’s head gave a sideways jerk, but he didn’t shift his attention from the partially rolled spliff. He was at a tricky stage in proceedings, and while the rest of him was in a state of constant movement, his hands were rock solid, his fingers working in harmony as they rolled the Rizlas around the buds of grass.

“Who’s asking?”

“Let’s just say I’m a friend of Uncle Shuggie’s,” Logan told him.