It was a shame, right enough, the lack of a butler. They were always reliable suspects—ever-present in the background. Part of the furniture, so never really noticed by anyone. They’d see things, though, while they went about their job. They’d notice little details. Spot opportunities. And they’d be so invisible that no bugger would ever suspect them until it was too late.

Aye, a dodgy butler would’ve been handy about now, right enough. Or a shifty gardener. A shady-looking maid, even.

“DCI Logan’s interviewing a possible suspect about now,” Ben said, checking his watch. He pointed to a name on the board. “Frankie Cowan. We think he’s our best lead at the moment.”

Hamza piped up from his desk. “Eh, sorry, sir. Message just came in from the DCI. Frankie’s a dead end.”

Ben closed his eyes for a moment, then consoled himself with another drink of tea. “Aye, well,” he said. “Looks like you’ll have to find a babysitter for those fish, after all, Dave.”

* * *

They sat in Logan’s car out by the Dumbarton branch of Asda, the glass steaming up with the heat of the KFC Hoon had insisted on as “a wee fucking thank you” for his assistance.

It had been a stupid move, the whole thing. Yes, Logan had wanted answers, but the roof was only partly about that. Mostly, it had been about wiping the smug look from Frankie’s face. It had been about payback.

Frankie had gone out of his way to humiliate the detectives in the park the day before. He’d largely succeeded, too. That shouldn’t have mattered, though. That shouldn’t have been what this was about.

“You ever realise you’re no’ as evolved as you think you are?” Logan asked, staring ahead through the fogged-up glass.

Beside him, Hoon stopped gnawing on a bone long enough to spit out a, “Do I fuck,” then he ripped some more chicken flesh off with his teeth and chewed noisily.

Maybe Logan was overthinking it. Back in the day—before his time, granted—that sort of stunt was a weekly occurrence. Got a hard nut you wanted to crack? Dangle him off a roof, or upside-down from a bridge. Lock him somewhere hot in the boot of a car, and leave him to consider the decisions that had brought him there. Find a quiet staircase, and let gravity do the rest.

There was an argument that these methods ‘got things done.’ And they did. Just not necessarily the right things, and often not even to the right people.

“Stop fucking moping,” Hoon said, sucking the grease from the tips of each finger in turn.

“I’m not moping. I just… We shouldn’t have left them there like that.”