‘Oh fuck.’

The Paradise Cinema was a recent addition to the area’s cultural landscape. It catered largely to local residents and usually attracted a respectable crowd. The bomb had been placed in one of the toilets and nobody had been hurt. Panic and fear had spread quickly and the crowd had piled into the street, pushing and shoving each other, afraid that another bomb could go off. The Bomb Squad arrived and cordoned off the street. Superintendent Brown was on the scene, ordering officers to hold back the crowd.

He shouted at Chief Inspector Roberts to get every available man out canvassing the area and see if anybody knew anything or had seen anything. He asked:

‘Where’s Porter Nash and that crony of yours, Brant? Where’s he when he’s wanted?’

Roberts had no idea and said:

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Some bloody copper you are. This better not be terrorists.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. The tape asked for money. I think it’s straightforward extortion.’

Brown looked like he’d have a coronary and ranted:

‘Straightforward? When the bloody hell was extortion straightforward?’

Roberts wanted to shout back, you stupid prick, you know what I mean, but settled for:

‘I don’t think it’s an international deal.’

‘That puts all our minds at rest, then — the great detective has spoken.’

The Bomb Squad commander came out of the cinema and Roberts was saved from having to reply. Brown asked him:

‘What have we got?

The bomb guy said:

‘You’re talking bottom of the barrel here.’

Brown took a deep breath, asked the Grand Designer of the Masons for patience, said:

‘Could you put that in words I might understand?’

The bomb guy exchanged a look with Roberts that said:

‘This asshole’s your boss, you got my sympathy, pal.’

Out loud he said:

‘Couldn’t be simpler, two sticks of dynamite and a cheap timer. Any idiot could put it together.’