“I tell you what I’ll do, Frankie,” Logan said. His voice a boom of authority. He had to make the gathering crowd behind him believe he was in charge here. Give them a reason to doubt it, and Tyler wouldn’t have to worry about his upcoming operation. They’d tear his balls off right here in this swing park. And that would just be for starters. “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to think about it. You mull it over, see if anything useful comes back to you, and we’ll discuss it again then.”

“How about naw?” Frankie countered. He was right up in Logan’s face now, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets as he tried laying the intimidation on thick.

The urge to knee him in the bollocks then drag him off by the hair was almost overpowering, but Budge was standing ready, the younger man who’d been throwing up on the ground was back on his feet, and the onlookers blocking the path were itching to get involved.

The play area was surrounded by tall fences on all sides. The only way out was along that path, through that crowd.

Normally, he’d front it up. He’d stride through them, shooting them glares that said, “Aye, just you fucking try it, pal.”

On a normal day, that would be enough. But, Frankie’s crew had tipped the balance of power here. And he had Tyler to think about.

He gritted his teeth. “Right, fine. You win, Frankie. We’ll go. For now.”

“Says who?” Frankie asked. There was a smile tugging at the side of his mouth. This was amusing him.

“You don’t want to do anything stupid,” Logan told him. “Right now, there’s not a lot I can do you for, minor drug possession offences aside. If things escalate, then that changes. Then, it’s open season.”

A series of twitches started on the far left of his top lip, then jerked all the way to the opposite end, making his mouth undulate like a rippling wave. His head jerked. His hands spasmed into fists. “Aye, but only if you’re able to tell anyone,” he said.

There was a laugh from the group behind them. Some whispering. A sound like knuckles being cracked.

Logan heard the shuffle of Tyler’s feet and a, “Stay where you are, sir,” that was almost convincingly calm.

“Check me oot, getting called fucking ‘sir,’ an’ that!” a teenage voice sniggered. “These two are fucking shiteing theirselves. Check oot the nick o’ the wee guy!”

Logan ran the odds. Not good. Very bad, in fact. Control—or the illusion of it, at least—was about to be lost. What happened after that, he could only guess at. It would be nothing good, though. Not from where the detectives were standing, at any rate.