“Wait, hold on, slow down,” Logan said, and his stomach gave a pitiful whimper of disappointment. Dinner, it knew, would have to wait. “Billy Neeps has what?”

* * *

Billy Neeps had a quick scan of the shop before he clicked off all the lights. He made a promise into the mobile he had jammed between a cheek and a shoulder that he was on his way, then hung up and shoved the mobile into one of his jacket’s many cluttered pockets.

He hummed quietly to himself as he stepped out into the bracing evening air and the rumble of passing traffic, then he pulled the glass door of his shop closed and fished a big bunch of keys from another pocket.

The keys, just as they’d done so many times before, immediately slipped out of his hand and landed on the step. Billy muttered some self-criticism or other below his breath, then his head gave a comical thonk on the door when he bent to retrieve the dropped keys.

Still, a dunt to the forehead was better than another pair of ripped trousers. And it was definitely better than that time he’d farted in the face of the sandwich shop owner’s disabled daughter. That one had taken some explaining.

He stood rubbing his forehead for a few moments, then more carefully retrieved the keys. For about the hundredth time, he contemplated getting one of those extendable keychain things to attach the bunch to one of his belt loops, then he secured the front door.

Grabbing the handle, he gave the door a shake, checking it was locked. You couldn’t be too careful. Not round here. Not round anywhere, these days.

Mind you, even if it wasn’t locked, the additional security he’d had installed a couple of years back would keep the robbing bastards out.

Billy was just stretching up to pull down the graffiti-stained metal shutter when he caught sight of a reflection in the glass. A man stood there, waiting. A big man, with an unhappy expression.

“William Pinnock,” the man said—the voice that had seemed reasonably friendly earlier now much sterner and more official.

Billy swallowed, briefly shut his eyes and whispered a prayer, then turned to face the detective in the big coat.

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, sir,” the DCI told him.

“Um… why? What about?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr Pinnock,” Logan replied. “Regarding the murder of Archie Sutherland, Donna Sutherland, and Donna’s two children.”

“Wh-what?” Billy stammered. He attempted to laugh it off, but failed dismally and settled into a more sombre approach. “I, um, should I have a solicitor present?”

“That’s up to you, Mr Pinnock,” Logan replied. “But I would strongly advise that you do.”

* * *