“Of course I didn’t kill—”

The smack of Logan’s hand on the table rolled around the room like thunder. “Yes or no answers!”

“No! No, I didn’t. No. God. No!”

Logan dismissed the answer with a scowl. “I don’t believe you. Did you take the baby?”

“What?!”

Logan’s jaw jutted forwards so his bottom teeth overlapped those on top. He made a grasping motion that balled his fingers into fists, then glowered at the detective beside him. “What bit’s he no’ getting about ‘yes or no answers?’” he seethed.

DCI Filson put a hand on Logan’s arm, as if holding him back. “Mr Pinnock, I’m going to level with you,” she said. “We’ve been doing a lot of research this evening. DCI Logan here has a team of detectives working under him, and they’ve all been focusing their attention, as well as the not insubstantial resources available to them through Police Scotland, on you.”

Billy’s voice was so high-pitched it would’ve sent the canine unit into a barking frenzy. “On me?”

“What kind of car do you drive, Billy?” Logan asked, taking a conversational left-turn that threw the suspect even deeper into a state of confusion.

“Car?”

“Aye. Car.” Logan mimed turning a steering wheel. “Vroom-vroom. What kind have you got?”

Billy’s expression was utterly vacant, like he’d been trying to decipher a riddle in a foreign language, and something in his brain had gone pop.

“I’ll tell you, will I?” Logan said. “Kia Rio. Dark blue. Or ‘Midnight Saffire’ if you want to get arsey about it.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” the solicitor asked.

Logan continued to drill his gaze into Billy’s skull. “It matches the description of a car seen parked at the house where the Sutherland family was murdered,” Logan said. “Which is why we think you killed them, Billy.”

“I didn’t! I couldn’t! I’m not capable of something like… I’m not a violent man!”

Logan sat back. “Well now, Billy,” he said. Beside him, DCI Filson removed a printout of a crime report from a folder. “Will we ask Darren Priestley if he agrees?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Tyler stood in front of the room’s full-length mirror, a cup of tea in one hand, his phone pressed against his ear by the other. His hair was dishevelled. Or as dishevelled as it was possible to get with all that wax holding it in place.

He leaned in closer to study the red rings under his eyes, then decided that was only likely to make him feel worse, and turned his back on his reflection.

“So… sorry I didn’t come up the road,” he said. “Are you mad?”

Sinead’s voice sounded tinny and faraway through the mobile’s earpiece. “No. Not mad,” she said. “I’m just glad you finally told him. You’ve got to do… Sorry, one sec.”