“Aye. It’s in security, though, so…” He gestured down at the creased tracksuit bottoms and food-stained t-shirt he wore. “Thought I’d better get my arse back into shape.”

Given that Hoon was several years older than Logan, his shape was already pretty impressive. His time behind a desk on the force had led to him becoming a little doughy around the edges, but since he’d been given his cards he’d started sculpting it all away again, thinning out the lean bits, and bulking up the rest.

Hoon gave Logan another appraising look. “Take it you gave up on the whole fucking notion?”

“What notion?”

“Getting fit. Losing weight.”

It was Logan’s turn to look down at himself. “I did,” he protested. “I’m about the right weight now.”

“The right weight?” Hoon snorted. “For what, a fucking bungalow?” He threw a punch, stopping it just short of Logan’s stomach before the DCI could even react. “You’re all tits and arse, son. And no’ in a fucking good way, either. You need to get yourself a training partner.” He gestured back over his shoulder. “Come on. I’ve got the weights out.”

“Eh, another time, maybe,” Logan said. “Still got that home invasion to sort out.”

“Oh. Right. Aye,” Hoon said. He sniffed hard, draining his sinuses, then spat their gelatinous contents out past Logan into the front garden. “Well, again, thanks for fucking nothing, Jack. Remind me next time you need my help for anything to tell you to ram it up your arse.”

“That’s fair,” Logan conceded. “Good luck with the job, Bob.”

“Aye. Well,” Hoon grunted. “Good luck with…”

Logan nodded. “Cheers,” he said, turning away. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“You spoken to Spandau Ballet yet?” Hoon asked.

Logan stopped and turned back. “You mean Tyler?”

Hoon scowled and shrugged, indicating he had no interest in getting on first-name terms with the man. “You spoken to him?”

“About what?” Logan asked.

“That’ll be a ‘no’ then,” Hoon muttered. He caught the edge of his door and started to close it. “I’d have a word with him.”

“About what?” Logan asked again.

“Not my fucking place to say, Jack,” Hoon said, and then the door closed between them with a firm, definitive click.

* * *

Down in Fort William, most of the team were deep in research mode. Phone calls were being made, conversations were being had, and leads were being followed up. A pile of Post-Its—still small, but getting larger—was growing on Sinead’s desk, as Tyler, Ben, and even Dave secured new nuggets of information and scribbled them down for her to process.

Three miles away, on the strip of road that separated Fort William train station from the local Morrison’s supermarket, DS Khaled sat in the middle row of a stationary seven-seater taxi, listening to the boom of the driver’s voice from up front.