“You saying I did the fat old fucker in?” he demanded. “You got any fucking evidence for that? You got a fucking… what’s it called? A fucking warrant to come here talking to me?”

“We don’t need a warrant, Frankie. You’re loitering in a kiddies’ swing park,” Logan pointed out.

Frankie looked to Budge for confirmation. The bigger man didn’t take his eyes off Logan, yet knew enough about his spliff-smoking companion to nod.

Frankie’s mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout, and his eyes screwed shut then popped wide open again.

“Fine. No fucking warrant, then. But you still can’t just fucking waltz in here and start saying I killed the bastard.”

“Well, I can, but I’m not saying that, Frankie,” Logan replied. “Although, I’ll give you, the thought had crossed my mind, right enough.”

Behind Logan, Tyler anxiously eyed the group of four teenagers. They had moved to position themselves between the detectives and the exit now, and were paying very close attention to the events unfolding before them.

The sharks were circling.

“How’d you fancy coming down to the station with me, Frankie?” Logan asked. “We’ll make it quick so your wee pals here will still be out playing when we’re done.”

“Naw,” Frankie said. He took a deep draw on his joint, held it until his lungs were fit for bursting, then blew it into the DCI’s face. “Ye’re alright. I’m good here.”

He raised the spliff to his mouth again. Logan made a grab for it, but a hand even bigger than his own caught him by the wrist and jerked his arm to a stop.

Frankie suffered what seemed to be a whole-body hiccup that burst on his lips like the brrrrring of an old-style telephone. “Tip!” His head twitched to the left. “Tip! Uck!” he announced, then he pulled himself together enough to talk some sort of sense. “Aye, best you don’t try any fucking funny business, Mr Polisman. Budge here doesn’t fucking like it. Do ye, Budge?”

Budge shook his head.

“See? He’s a good guy. Knows the fucking score,” Frankie patted the much larger man on as close to his shoulder as he could reach. “Hardy bastard. Did one o’ the wars, or fucking… something. I don’t know, he’s no’ much of a talker. Knows how to fucking handle himself, though. Knows how to fuck a prick up, put it that way.”

“Eh, boss?” Tyler’s voice was a low murmur of concern.

Logan yanked his hand from Budge’s grip and glanced back to see another group of lads making their way along the path, no doubt drawn by the prospect of a scrap. This lot were in their twenties, Logan guessed. Five of them. Not friendly looking. Not by a longshot.

This was not going well.