Logan sat back in his padded seat, and pointed Chalmers at the empty plastic chair on the other side of the bed. ‘One of the benefits of spending a lot of time in hospital: you get to know all the shortcuts.’

‘Oh.’ She sank into the chair, winced, then slumped slightly. ‘I’ve put in a lookout request for our missing hoodie; the other two are on their way back to the station.’

A pair of handcuffs fixed Guy’s ankle to the bed, by the balloons. As if there was a risk of him floating away. Which, given the amount of morphine he was apparently on, probably wasn’t a bad idea.

‘So,’ Logan helped himself to a grape, ‘do you want to come clean and save everyone a load of trouble? ’

‘Trouble? ’ He squinted one eye, then did the same with the other, as if Logan was bobbing in and out of focus. Both eyes were red-veined and puffy, the pupils dilated, tears glittering along the bottom lid. A little laugh. ‘Trouble. . .’

Stoned out of his tiny mind.

‘Your mates, the hoodies: who are they? ’

‘Trouble. They’re trouble . . . that’s what mum always says. . .’

‘What about the man you killed, was he trouble too? Did he try to screw you out of your share of the jewellery, that it? What was he, the inside man? ’

‘Doctors came round. . .’ Guy held up the boxy things hiding his hands. ‘They’re going to cut off my fingers. . . All . . . all the ones on the left, and . . . and two on the right. . . My fingers. . .’

Chalmers poked a finger into the bedclothes. ‘That’s what you get for necklacing someone, isn’t it? Serves you right.’

‘All burned. . . Can’t save them.’ A deep breath. Then he screwed his eyes tight shut and bit his bottom lip. ‘Going to cut them off today. . .’ Tears rolled down his cheeks, glinting. As if that was going to make them feel sorry for the murdering little bastard.

He’d burned his hands so badly they’d have to amputate more than half his fingers: maybe Isobel was right? Maybe Guy Ferguson was stupid enough to strangle someone on fire? ‘You did it, didn’t you? ’

‘I. . . I can’t—’

‘You killed him. You chained him to a stake, stuck a tyre over his head and set fire to it.’

‘It wasn’t—’

‘Twenty minutes, that’s how long it takes someone to burn to death like that. Twenty minutes.’

Guy’s mouth fell open, bottom lip sticking out, tears spilling down his cheeks. ‘I. . . I don’t—’

‘Guy Ferguson, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering an unknown male yesterday afternoon. You do not have to say anything—’