‘My client has nothing to say on that matter.’ McCloist’s lawyer smiled. He was huge, broad and tall enough to tower over everyone, even sitting down. Big hands, big chin, big ears, hair cut short trying to disguise the big bald spot.

‘Really.’ Logan checked his watch: quarter to three. ‘Well, you know what, Sammy? That’s fine with me. Right now we’re getting a warrant to search you and your mates’ houses. Think we’ll find anything interesting? ’

A sniff. ‘You broke my bloody wrist.’

‘You were resisting arrest. Remember? ’

‘My client strenuously denies your interpretation of events. He was visiting a friend when you attacked him.’

‘Do you know we’ve recovered DNA from the jewellery heist? Nice clear sample. Right now they’re seeing which one of you it matches.’ Which was a lie. The way things were going, they’d be lucky to get any DNA results back before Christmas.

‘It cannot possibly match my client, because my client wasn’t there. My client—’

‘Was visiting his sick granny. You said.’

‘Then there’s really no reason for us to continue this interview, is there? ’ The massive lawyer stood. ‘We have co-operated fully with your investigation, now it’s time for you to release my client.’

Sammy grinned. ‘Going to sue your arse off for breaking my wrist. Police brutality, that is. I’m going to own your house, man.’

Logan shook his head. ‘Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. One: you don’t want my house. Even I don’t want my house. Two. . .’ He sat forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘We’ve got a witness. When you broke into the jewellers, someone outside recognized you.’ Another lie, but worth a try anyway.

Sammy curled his top lip. ‘That’s bollocks!’ He thumped his cast on the tabletop. ‘No one could’ve recognized us, ’cos we was wearing masks the whole time.’ He sat back, folded his arms, nodded. Smiled. Look how clever I am.

The lawyer sank into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

The Procurator Fiscal wandered over to the window and stared out at the view. A hint of grey was creeping in at the temples of her dark-brown hair. Blue tweed Jackie Onassis suit, cherry-blossom nail varnish. Distinguished, in a cougary kind of way. ‘Could you not have found a less . . . complicated solution? ’

Sitting at the boardroom table, Logan shrugged. ‘It wasn’t really up to me, ma’am.’

From here, most of central Aberdeen was laid out in a patchwork of slate and flat roofs, bristling with satellite dishes and obsolete aerials. Big fat seagulls spiralled in the pale-blue sky, like bleached vultures, hunting for scraps and any dogs or children small enough to carry off.