Logan let go of the hood and snatched at the other arm – fumbling till he got a good hold on the wrist, then bent it over on itself, forcing the palm towards the forearm and keeping it there.

‘AAAAAAAAAGH! GERROFFUS!’

Another bang and the door burst open again: another tracksuit hoodie. This one hurdled the porter’s overturned trolley, clearing it by at least two feet, going like the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.

BOOM – DS Chalmers charged through after him. Mouth open, sharp little teeth bared. ‘COME BACK HERE!’

Hoodie Number One landed another punch. ‘Gerroffus!’

Logan gave the wrist one final twist. . . And something inside went ‘pop’.

A moment’s stillness, then he exploded, screaming, legs thrashing.

His mate leapt over them and out through the door into the sunlight. Chalmers wasn’t quite so lucky. A flailing leg caught her mid-leap and she went crashing to the ground, face first. Hoodie Number Two didn’t look back, didn’t slow down, just kept on running.

Chalmers lay where she was, groaning.

‘Gerroffus, gerroffus, gerroffus.’ The wee sod was losing a bit of energy and volume now. The words punctuated by little sobs.

Logan dragged the cuffs from his pocket and forced one end on over the hoodie’s misshapen wrist. Got a squeal for his troubles. Did the same with the other one, fastening both hands behind the guy’s back.

Then Logan struggled to his feet, reached down, and helped Chalmers stand. ‘Nice swan dive.’

She glowered at him. ‘I would’ve got him, if you hadn’t tripped me!’ Fresh dots of red welled up on her skinned chin.

He hauled the crying hoodie upright. ‘Blame Laughing Boy here.’

She turned her head and spat a frothy blob of red on the rubber matting. ‘Bit my tongue. . .’

DS Chalmers limped in, clutching an icepack to her chin. ‘How’d you get there before us anyway? ’

The ward was broken up into rooms of four beds a piece. Clunky screen things on flexible arms sat above the headboards, flickering adverts at them promising a glorious world of entertainment for any patient willing to pay for it.

Guy Ferguson had the bed by the window, propped up on a cliff-face of pillows, blinking slowly in the sunlight. His arms disappeared into what looked like shoe boxes covered in gauze bandages. Shiny metallic ‘GET WELL SOON’ balloons were anchored to the rail at the foot of the bed, glittering in the sunshine, trailing coils of ribbon like poisonous jellyfish. Grapes, lads’ mags, and bottles of Lucozade cluttered the bedside cabinet.

His acne had cleared up since the mugshot, leaving his cheeks and forehead a moonscape of pockmarks. The eyebrows were even thicker, but the bumfluff moustache hadn’t improved any.