It was a cold, bare chamber with incriminating smears on the walls; the only furniture was a single unsteady table, which had been hammered on so many times by the inspector’s fist that the legs splayed and were almost coming off their mastic moorings.Two chairs of the same ilk faced each other under and across the table. Jean Brash, composed enough but a little shaken from events so far, sat in one of them. McLevy was in the other with Mulholland occupying the usual place, leaning against the wall by the door. He and the inspector swapped positions, depending on the suspect. This time there had been a tacit assumption that McLevy would be a close, if not intimate, interrogator.For this was no normal interrogation.It was a well known fact that McLevy and Jean Brash were companions in coffee and rumour had it more than that in past times, though Mulholland had never seen evidence of such. But there was an undeniable connection.She was queen bee of Leith and McLevy was king of the streets.
