The man with the bloody nose didn’t say a word, just pointed back towards the rear of the hotel and an open fire exit.

Logan nodded at Guthrie. ‘Take his statement.’

Guthrie looked left, then right, then dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Thought we were keeping this low key? ’

‘Tell me, Constable, do you remember what Steel said would happen if you don’t deal with your allotted jobbie when you’re told to? ’

‘Ah. . . Right.’ A blush made his chubby cheeks glow. ‘Yes, Guv. Statement. . .’ He pulled out his notebook and shuffled in front of Mr Bleedy. ‘Now, sir, I need you to tell me what happened, in your own words.’

Logan left him to it.

Inside the hotel, the corridor was lined in dark-red flock wallpaper with brass sconces every couple of metres casting pools of golden light. Tasteful in a ‘tart’s boudoir’ kind of way. Plain wooden doors sat every eight foot or so, signed with things like ‘PRIVATE’ and ‘STAFF ONLY’. One three doors down lay open, with someone’s leg sticking out into the hallway, their blue sock twitching in time to muffled grunts from inside the room.

Kinky.

He peered in. A lanky man lay face down on the floor, one shoe on, one shoe off, struggling beneath a huge lump of muscle in a bomber jacket, jeans and a red T-shirt.

Mr Muscle had one knee in the base of the guy’s spine, one arm twisted up behind his back, and his face mashed into the grey carpet tiles. A translucent coil of wire spiralled out of Mr Muscle’s left ear and disappeared into his collar. So he was either a concerned citizen with hearing difficulties, or a professional security thug.

Logan leaned against the doorframe. ‘Are we all having fun? ’

Mr Muscle looked up and gave him a thin smile. His face was round and smooth, like a large, slightly scary baby. ‘Mr Whyte here is having a difficult time adjusting to being single. Aren’t you, Mr Whyte? ’

The lanky bloke wriggled some more, muffled swearing just about audible through the carpet tile’s pile.

‘Any chance you can let Mr Whyte go? ’

‘I don’t know if that would be advisable.’ Mr Muscle pulled a face. ‘The last time we tried releasing Mr Whyte, he assaulted one of the hotel staff.’

Logan stepped into the room. Then paused. Something in there smelled like raw meat and wet dog. . . He pulled out his handcuffs and secured Mr Whyte’s other wrist, then hauled it over so he could grab the one Mr Muscle had in a death grip. Click. ‘OK, let him up.’

Mr Muscle took his knee out of the guy’s spine, grabbed him by the shoulders, and hauled him to his feet.