“I’m worried about what she might do,” Hoon said. “When she finds out what you called her.”

Confusion formed lines on a face for which wrinkles were a distant, far-off concern. “Called her?”

“Aye. Don’t pretend you don’t remember,” Hoon said. “You said she’d a face like a bag of tits.”

Gavin’s mouth dropped open. “What? No, I didn’t. You said that.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what?” Hoon said. “I did nothing of the bloody kind.”

“You did!” Gavin protested. “You said ‘the fat one with the face like a bag of tits.’”

Hoon’s eyes became two wide circles of innocence. “There are three women out there, son. You’re the one who pointed the finger at poor Sandra. How the fuck would I even know her name, if you didn’t say it? Or that she’s the fucking Night Fill Junior Champion, or whatever it was you said she did? Why would I know that if you didn’t tell me?”

His chair legs groaned on the thin carpet tiles as he stood up. Physically, Gavin was an inch or two taller, but in terms of sheer presence, Hoon filled the whole room.

“You think she’ll put in a complaint?” he asked. “I would. I mean… face like a bag of tits. What sort of misogynistic arsehole of a boss says that about a woman working under him? I smell a fucking tribunal, son, I won’t lie.”

Gavin swallowed. He was sweating now, grey patches spreading around the armpits of his cheap white shirt. “They won’t… Nobody will believe you.”

“Oh really?” Hoon asked. “I’m a decorated Detective Superintendent of Police, son. You’re a semi-inflated foetus in a clip-on tie.” He winked. “Will we go and see whose word they take, will we?”

He gave the Junior Manager a few moments to consider his options, then suggested—firmly, but not unkindly—that he might want to sit down.

“I… I can’t put you in Customer Services,” the ashen-faced Gavin said, once his arse was firmly back in his chair. “I just… I can’t.”

“Sandra!” Hoon called, and every muscle in Gavin’s body visibly tensed at the same time.

“Shh! Don’t!” he urged, firing a panicky look at the door. “I’m not saying you can’t have a job, I’m just saying not Customer Services.”

“What then?” Hoon asked.

Gavin cleared his throat. He smiled, but it was a pitiful thing that only barely hung in place. “How do you feel,” he began, “about security…?”

Chapter Eight

Logan was standing at the bar at the Clachaig Inn when a series of rapid-fire text messages arrived, making some disparaging remarks about his weight, penis size, sexuality, and parentage. Though not necessarily in that order.

“Oh, shite,” he muttered, as two coffees were set on a tray before him.

“Sorry?” asked the barman.