His lips were pinched but he had ceased to whistle. As he stood, an arc of piss sprayed the urinal. The expression on his face was hard to analyse – somewhere between startled and slightly chuffed. He turned away, looked down, shook, then zipped up. He regained composure quickly, began whistling again. It was an irritating tune, some chart rubbish, thought Brennan, something that might once have been worthy but had been milked dry by a television talent show. Lauder brushed past Brennan, left him in no doubt about what his impression of the DI was – as if he was in any doubt after catching his comments from beyond the cubicle door. Lauder said, ‘If you think I care two shits for you hearing any of that, you’re wrong.’ Brennan turned slowly. He removed his hands from his pockets and folded them behind his back as he faced Lauder in the wall mirror, said, ‘Do you think I do?’ He managed a sneer on the last syllable. He was sure it had the effect he was after. Lauder pushed the soap spray, put his hands under the taps and got a lather going.
