He peeled back the paper, exposing a plain cardboard box. Lifted the lid and stared. It looked like a plastic vagina, stuck on top of a thermal travel mug. ‘What the sodding hell is this? ’

‘It’s a Fleshlight: you stick your Wee Willie Winkie in it and jiggle it about. You’ve been a right miserable tosser since your girlfriend ended up in the hospital, do you good to relieve a bit of tension now and then.’

Oh dear God.

‘For the tape, I’m showing Mr Chung exhibit six, a semi-automatic handgun of Eastern European origin.’ Logan held up the ugly black weapon in its clear plastic evidence pouch. ‘Mr Chung, would you like to tell us where you got this? ’

Anthony Chung grinned. ‘Dude, it’s—’

His lawyer put a hand on his arm. ‘My client has no comment to make.’

Again.

‘Mr Blake, your client’s prints are all over it, and we have three police officers as witnesses, do you really think a jury will—’

‘My client has no comment to make.’

A knock on the door, then PC Guthrie stuck his head into the room. ‘Guv? ’

Logan sat back in his seat, closed his eyes. Gritted his teeth. ‘Interview suspended at . . . nine forty AM. DI McRae leaving the room.’

Outside, Guthrie shifted from foot to foot, glancing up and down the corridor as Logan closed the interview-room door.

‘This better be important.’

Guthrie dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s Insch. He’s downstairs going ballistic. Something about an early court date for his Hollywood starlet? Says he’s been calling you all morning.’

Oh. . . crap. Logan sagged against the wall. He was supposed to get Morgan Mitchell up in front of the Sheriff first thing. Knew he’d forgotten something. ‘OK, OK, I’ll sort it.’ He pointed back, over his shoulder at the interview-room. ‘Go tell them we’re taking a fifteen-minute break. Give them a bit more time to work on their lies.’

The cell block was a lot quieter than yesterday. Today the only sound came from the PCSO office radio, oozing out hits of the nineties. Which probably counted as cruel and unusual punishment under the European Convention on Human Rights, but what the hell.

No sign of Kathy in the lower cell block, so he tried the one upstairs instead.

She was bootfaced, dragging a mop back and forth across the concrete floor. A bucket of dirty water sat beside an open cell, filling the air with the pine-fresh stench of disinfectant. ‘. . .but no, it’s Muggins here who has to clean it up. . .’

Logan stayed well out of mop-range. ‘Having fun? ’

She glowered at him. ‘Why is it that as soon as anyone pukes their guts all over the place, everyone disappears? ’

Maybe not then. ‘I need to get Morgan Mitchell bumped up the court schedule.’

‘What am I, their mother? Lazy bunch of—’

‘Kathy: court schedule.’