‘You calling me, prick-face?’

Brant smiled, this was better than he’d hoped. Moved to within a cigarette of the guy, said:

‘I’m Sergeant Brant. Due to recent public concern, we have to identify ourselves from the off. My name mean anything to you?’

The guy dredged up phlegm from deep in his chest, sampled it, then brought it up, letting his head back, he hawked the full load, then spat it to an inch of Brant’s left shoe, said:

‘That name don’t mean shit to me.’

Brant didn’t move, which set off an alarm in the guy’s confidence.

Brant said:

‘Oh, that’s not very nice. Watch out, she’s behind you.’

Almost never failed, the oldest ruse in the book and the shitheads went for it every time. The guy turned and Brant hit him with the low kidney shot, felling him like a sack of Galway potatoes. He moved round then with the steel caps, delivered a staccato of kicks to the body. A small cheer went up from the girls. Brant hunkered down, grabbed the blond hair with his left hand and dragged the guy’s face up, said:

‘You gotta be hurting, am I right?… No, no, don’t answer ‘cos I still have to break your nose… shshhhhhh, be done before you can shout “police intimidation”.’

And it was.

Brant straightened up, reached for his cigs, fired up, finally turned to the hookers who were gaping at him. No strangers to violence, they were stunned at the casual ferocity. Brant gave his wolf smile, said:

‘Nice evening for it.’

Then nudging the guy with the tip of his shoe, he said:

‘I see you again, you’re history.’

As he got back in the car, he enjoyed the sight of the women rolling the guy.

Falls wanted a drink; she wanted a lot of drinks. The Roebuck was usually quiet midweek and on her way to the bar she clocked a few lone drinkers. A surly barman slapped her drink on the counter. She was preparing to have his ass when a customer banged into her, said: