‘Yo?’

‘Brant, it’s Roberts, we’ve got a situation.’

Brant winked at the hooker, said:

‘Just had me a situation, too.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Can you get down here?’

‘On my way.’

He stood up, stretched, and the hooker asked:

‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Whoa… who’s counting?’

‘So, did I ever ask you for anything? Not once, not even a few quid?’

He mimed horror, said:

‘You mean you were faking, it wasn’t love?’

‘There’s a guy, name of Millovitz, some European geezer, he’s been beating the girls at the Oval, says they’ll get hurt bad if they don’t pay him weekly. One of the girls, he broke her nose and in this game, that drives value way down.’

Brant selected a pair of tan cords and sparkling white shirt, pulled out a stolen police federation tie, did it up in a Windsor knot. He sat, pulled on heavy work boots then selected a short black raincoat. The wardrobe was open and she could see a ton of new clothes, still with tags on. She could see they were designer labels and what they said to her was money, lots of money. Brant smiled, said:

‘Fell off a lorry, know what I mean?’

She didn’t answer, Brant did a twirl, asked:

‘What do you think? See me on the street, would you get hot?’

She thought she’d get the hell away — everything about him screamed cop. She gave a weak smile, Brant reached down, touched his toes, said:

‘Listen.’

He rapped his knuckle and a dull zing sounded. Straightening, he said:

‘Steel caps. So what time does this shithead usually make an appearance?’

4

Around the table were Porter Nash, PC McDonald, Brant, assorted plain-clothes officers and, at the top, Chief Inspector Roberts. One of the detectives asked:

‘What’s the PC doing here?’