Logan turned, slumped back against the door. ‘I swear to God, if this isn’t good, I’m going to knee your testicles into orbit. Deal? ’

Rennie grinned. ‘You know you’ve got Chalmers looking for Stacey Gourdon? Well, guess who I found? ’ He contorted his face into a Popeye wink. ‘Go on, I bet you can’t. . .? ’

The cell block reverberated with the sounds of what could almost be called singing. As long as you didn’t care too much about lyrics, melody, or adhering to any one key.

Kathy the PCSO led the way to the block of cells where they kept the female prisoners. ‘Still haven’t found anyone with Tourette’s, but the night’s young.’

She stopped outside the cell at the end of the corridor. Then slid the hatch open. ‘Stacey Gourdon: breach of the peace. Otherwise known as staggering blootered down Belmont Street at three in the afternoon with her dress hoiked up around her armpits and no pants on, shouting at random strangers to, and I quote, “Taste the rainbow of fruit flavours.” Uniform turned up and she tried to stab them with her high heels.’

Classy.

Rennie hooked his thumb at the cell door. ‘See? What did I tell you? ’

Logan stepped up and peered inside.

A young woman sat on the edge of the blue plastic mattress, holding onto the bed, staring at the other side of the room, mouth hanging open, blinking in slow motion. Her short black dress was rucked up on one side, her knees scraped red and speckled with scabs. Bruises made a violet tattoo on her bare shoulder. Short black hair sticking out in all directions, like a punk pixie.

Not dead then.

Logan knocked on the metal door. ‘Stacey? You up to answering a couple of questions? ’

Her voice sounded as if it belonged at the bottom of a well. ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘Didn’t do what? ’

‘Whatever it is you’re trying to pin on me. That’s the “what” I didn’t do.’

‘Anthony Chung.’

She turned to look at the hatch. Her mascara and lipstick was all smeared to the right, as if her head was suffering from motion blur. ‘Now that I did do.’

Stacey Gourdon sat on the chair with her knees up against her chest, picking away at her scabby knees. ‘This whole interrogation gestalt is so passé, isn’t it? What happened to the good old-fashioned smoky room, with the single light bulb? Sometimes there’s comfort in cliché, don’t you think? ’

Building Maintenance had given interview room two a fresh coat of paint. It was a bit like putting an Elastoplast on a tumour.

Logan sighed. ‘For the last time: you can’t have a cigarette.’

‘But I can have a lawyer.’

‘If you want one. But I’m not interested in you, I want to know about Anthony Chung and Agnes Garfield.’