Duggan had stretched out on the bench attached to the opposite wall, his legs crossed at the ankles, his hands behind his head as a makeshift pillow.

‘Get some sleep, wee man,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a long night.’

Tony had wondered at his calmness, his ability to shut out the shouts, the banging of doors, the whistles that echoed down the hall outside. He moved across to the heavy iron door and thumped on it, using his fist at first, but then open palmed when it had hurt too much.

‘You’re wasting your time, wee man,’ Duggan said. ‘They won’t open that until they’re good and ready. Or they think you’re not.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Tony said. ‘My da, Jesus, what could he do?’

‘You’re the brother of the lad got run down, isn’t that right, wee man?’

Tony nodded lightly, bristling at the appended ‘wee man’. He studied Duggan more closely now. He was, perhaps in his late twenties, florid-faced, black hair shorn close, already peppered with grey. He was certainly no more than ten years his senior, though carried the air of one much older.

‘Sorry for your loss. I heard they didn’t even stop to see if he was hurt. Fucking terrible thing.’

Tony moved back to his own bench and sat. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered, then stood again, his anger boiling over once more. The strength of the feeling surprised him, consoled him. He could not bring Danny back, just as his father had said, but he could let anger honour his memory, raging against those who had killed him. ‘Bastards!’ he shouted.

Duggan chuckled to himself, lightly. ‘Were you watching the game earlier?’

Tony stared at him, blankly. He didn’t remember there being a match on and, for a moment, wondered if he was commenting on the match after which Danny had been killed.

‘It was one-nil to them. Then our side got a wee late one,’ Duggan added.

Tony sat again, nodding his head although he had no idea what the man was talking about. He began to wonder whether it was a ruse; perhaps Duggan knew that they’d be listening in to the cell and was moving the conversation on to something innocuous, trivial. It was only after an interminable description of the minutiae of someone’s playing style, a discussion to which Tony could offer nothing, never having heard of the player in question, that he began to reassess the purpose of Duggan’s choice of topic.

‘Yeah. Don’t be worrying. We got a late one; the balance sheet’s even now, anyway, eh?’ the man had said and winked at Tony.

Tony nodded. ‘Thank–’ He stopped himself. If the cells were being monitored, he reasoned he’d be safest saying nothing that could be contrived as dangerous. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see it.’

‘Shame,’ Duggan said. ‘You’d have loved it. Great goal. A header.’

Ten minutes later, the door grated back on protesting hinges as two police officers came in.

‘Duggan. You’re with us.’