‘Didn’t Roberta tell you? I could have sworn I asked her to disseminate it to the troops. Anyway, you should definitely get your name down.’ He lowered his voice a notch, as if there was a secret on the way. ‘Listen, we’re having a press conference here at half three, and you know me: I like to ensure my team gets the kudos it deserves. Make sure you’ve got a decent suit on, don’t want them thinking we all fell off the back of a tractor, do we? ’

Deep breath. ‘Actually, sir, it’s a bit more complicated. . .’

‘You don’t have a clean suit? ’

‘No. I mean yes, I’ve got a clean suit, I mean it’s Guy Ferguson. He claims someone necklaced the victim before he got there. He tried to get the tyre off. And when that didn’t work Ferguson stabbed him so he wouldn’t just . . . burn to death.’

Steel’s eyes went wide. ‘You . . . what? ’

Logan turned his back on her. ‘Ferguson got molten rubber all over his hands trying to save the victim. They’re going to amputate most of his fingers this afternoon.’

Silence on the other end of the phone.

‘Sir? ’

The posh telephone voice was slipping. ‘Are you telling me you arrested a good Samaritan? ’

‘He confessed. And he was in on the jewellery heist too. We’ve got two of his associates in custody and—’

‘How the hell am I supposed to spin that? For God’s sake, McRae, could you not have arrested someone who wasn’t a hero? ’

‘But the jewellery heist—’

‘Please tell me he’s not photogenic.’

Acne scars, thick eyebrows, junior moustache. ‘No, he’s not photogenic.’

A sigh. ‘Well that’s something at least. . .’ The ACC hung up.

Logan returned Steel’s phone. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the DI’s job? ’

‘Don’t change the subject: you made me look like a right fanny!’

‘Tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you? ’ He turned and headed back into the hospital.

‘Hoy!’ Steel’s voice boomed down the corridor behind him. ‘Where do you think you’re going – we’re no’ finished!’

‘Visiting hours. Got someone to see.’

Interview room three was baking hot, the usual pervading odour of cheesy feet and stale digestive biscuits was joined by a thick layer of oniony BO. Its owner shuffled his bum in his seat – the one on the wrong side of the scarred Formica table. The one bolted to the floor.

Sammy McCloist, seventeen and a half, squint nose, sideburns like a pedestal mat, hair down to his hunched shoulders. The fibreglass cast on his right wrist reached all the way from the palm of his hand to just before the elbow. Brand new, and it was already filthy.

He opened his mouth, but the git in the suit sitting next to him put a hand on his arm.