The last wobbling strains of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ faded away, then Peggy leaned forward and huffed out the candles in three wheezing breaths. A cheer went up from the assembled dozen-or-so OAPs and she sat back beaming her dentures at them, rubbing knobble-knuckled hands as Ma Stewart cut the cake.

Radio 2 burbled out into the large room. The ceiling was a patchwork of stained grey tiles, the breezeblock walls painted white and covered with posters of kittens and ‘You Don’t Have To Be Mad To Work HERE’, the floor with beige carpet tiles patched with duct tape. . .

Metal modular shelving ran around the outside of the room, between the posters, spider plants trailing their pale-green tendrils down from between cardboard boxes of dittay books and baseball caps. Benches and tables filled the middle of the room, some with sewing machines, others with glue and glitter, another handful with assorted tools, bales of fabric, sheets of leather, cutting tools. . . A proper little cottage counterfeiting industry.

The wee man in the baggy cardigan handed out china plates with slices of birthday cake on them. A blue-rinsed woman – hunched over like a quaver – followed him with cups of tea.

Logan took one of each and settled back against a workbench festooned with blank notebooks. A pile of red leather covers lay next to them – each one tooled with the dittay book’s swirls and patterns. He took a bite, and a sip of tea. Good cake. Nice and moist.

Ma swept her hands up, until she stood there like an over-inflated letter T. ‘See, how can this possibly be wrong? ’

Dildo picked up a witch-finder badge, the enamel only half done. ‘Because it’s illegal.’

‘I’m providing a service to the community. These poor dears need something to keep them busy, don’t you, Dougie? ’

A man in a tank-top, shirt, and tie nodded, making his comb-over bang up and down like a trapdoor. ‘Better than listening to some wee tosspot singing ye olde wartime songs at us. I’m seventy-five, not ninety – I saw the Rolling Stones live about a dozen times. And the Sex Pistols. “Knees up Mother Brown” my sharny arse.’

Peggy put an arthritis-twisted hand to her chest and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, Mr Galloway, such language!’

He grinned. ‘Ah, you love it when I talk dirty.’

Ma’s chest swelled up, as if she was about to explode. ‘You see? They get out and about, we have nice lunches, tea and biscuits, they get to make new friends, gossip, maybe a little romance. . .? ’

A blush spread across Peggy’s lined cheeks. ‘One knee-trembler after the pub shuts and they never let you forget it.’

‘And you know what the state pension’s worth these days, don’t you? Nowhere near enough to keep body and soul together. I provide my ladies and gentlemen with a nice little income and a lovely place to work.’

Dildo sighed. ‘That’s not the point. It’s still—’