It was a private room, the blinds drawn against the weak winter sunshine, while Sandy Moir-Farquharson seethed. The lawyer's face was a mess - split lip, swollen cheek, black eye, his nose bridged with plastic and tape, a wad of sterile bandage strapped to his forehead. A morphine drip snaked into his left arm, the right resting on top of the sheets, swathed in a cast from elbow to fingertip. 'You thee thomething funny inthpector?' He was missing at least two teeth. Insch closed his eyes for a second, then said, 'I was just thinking of an amusing anecdote I heard last week, sir.' Fighting to keep a straight face. 'I don't ...' The lawyer coughed, eye screwed up in pain. 'Aaggg ...' Taking shallow, hissing breaths. And Logan began to feel sorry for the man. They'd treated it like a joke all the way up here in the car, laughing about someone being beaten up badly enough to require hospitalization. Moir-Farquharson slumped back in his bed, a faint sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten.
