“So, why am I still smelling it?” Tyler asked. He jabbed at the button on his door that should open the window, but the glass refused to budge. “And why’s that not working?” he demanded, his presses becoming more and more frantic.

“Jesus Christ, son, a minute in and you’re already a pain in the arse,” Logan said. He flicked a switch on his own window controls that allowed Tyler’s button to do its job. The DC practically shoved his head out through the hole where the glass had been, and gulped in big lungfuls of air.

“You’re smelling the cleaning stuff,” Logan insisted.

“I don’t know, boss, it smells a bit pukey to me.”

“Aye, well, it’s not. It’s bloody… Dettol. Or Vanish, or whatever they used.”

Tyler angled his head away from the window just enough to side-eye the man in the driver’s seat. “They?”

“Aye. The valet people. You think I was cleaning it up? No bloody chance,” Logan said. “Which reminds me, you owe me twenty-five quid.”

“If I was you, I’d be asking for your money back, boss, because that’s still honking.”

“It’s the cleaning stuff,” Logan insisted. He sniffed the air a few times. “Although it is a bit pukey, right enough, now that you mention it.”

“Jesus!” Tyler groaned, forcing his head further out of the open window. “The smell of spew turns my stomach.”

“It’s your own bloody spew!”

“How’s that better?” Tyler yelped.

“God Almighty. Think about something else,” Logan said. They were heading out of town now, but were still just one or two percent of the way into the journey. There was no way he could tolerate a perpetually vomiting Tyler for the next two and a half hours.

“Like what?” Tyler asked, his desperation apparent in his voice. “I can’t think of anything but puke now.”

“I talked to Hoon,” Logan said. He heard Tyler gulp—possibly swallowing back the urge to throw up, but just as possibly something else. “He asked if I’d spoken to you.”

“Spoken to me? About what?”

“You tell me.”

The wind whipped at Tyler’s hair as the BMW hugged the lines of the road. It was a futile gesture, though, the sheer amount of product in his hair stubbornly resisting the worst that Mother Nature might throw at it.

“I don’t know, boss,” the DC said.

“Aye, you do,” Logan insisted. “I can tell when you’re lying, son. You know how?”

“How?”

“Because you’re shite at it,” Logan said. “There’s something going on. If you don’t want to tell me, then fine. If it’s none of my business, that’s no bother. But don’t lie to me. Alright?”

The wind, having given up trying to affect Tyler’s hair, went for his eyes, instead. Tears streamed from them, before being whisked off his cheeks.