Frankie’s eyes raised from the joint just long enough to take in the two new arrivals. “Naw, you’re no’,” he said. “Yous are polis. I can smell it off ye.”

“I’m that, too,” Logan admitted.

He took a step closer, and the man who had been sitting in the swing beside Frankie was suddenly on his feet. He was fast for a big lad. So fast, in fact, that Logan barely saw him move.

“Easy, Budge, man,” Frankie said, turning his attention back to his work. He licked the paper and rolled the final part into place, then waved the spliff about like he was showing it off. “You got a light, Mr Polisman?”

Logan shook his head. “No.”

“What about your wee pal?” Frankie asked, shifting his attention to Tyler. “You got a light, buddy?”

“Eh, no,” Tyler said. His eyes followed the joint. “But, eh, you shouldn’t be—”

Logan made a hand gesture, indicating that Tyler should stop talking. For once, the younger officer picked up on a signal and his words fell away into silence.

Frankie grinned. It was a grotesque, twisted thing, like something from a horror movie. “Paco? Gimme a light.”

The man on the roundabout jumped to attention at the mention of his name. “Coming, Uncle Frankie!”

He hopped down from his perch, took two steps, then staggered sideways and fell onto the rubberised safety surface that surrounded the park equipment.

“Fuck’s sake,” Frankie hissed, as Paco vomited loudly on the ground behind him. He patted his own pockets until he found a lighter, then sparked up in full view of the officers. He inhaled deeply, clamped his mouth shut, then gestured for Logan to continue.

“I want to ask you a few questions, Frankie. About Archie Sutherland.”

The man on the swing spluttered out a lungful of smoke. “That fucking prick?” he spat. “What about him? Ye know where he is?”

“Do you?” Logan asked.

“No’ for want of fucking trying! You know what that fucking rat has done?”

“What would that be?”

Frankie almost replied.

Almost.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter,” he said. He took another draw on his joint, let it navigate its way down through his airways, then squeaked a, “Continue,” from the corner of his mouth.

Budge, who Logan noted did indeed have a height advantage of two or three inches, was still on his feet. He had made no attempt to close the gap between them, but he held himself like he was ready to move at a moment’s notice. Less, perhaps.

The size of him wasn’t the issue. Muscle—even that much—was just so much extra weight if you didn’t know how to use it. The problem was that everything about this man stated that he did know how to use it, and that he’d very much enjoy using it, too.