Falls sighed, said:

‘You’re going to be a policewoman?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Then take the bloody time to get my name right.’

The woman was in those impossible early twenties, where they look barely sixteen. She had black hair cut short, brown eyes and a face that might have been described as pretty if you had three drinks behind you. The uniform disguised her shape but she seemed to be in good physical nick. It was the fresh-faced energy that annoyed Falls, the gung-ho, raring- to-go shit that they presented. Falls asked:

‘How did you know it was me?’

The woman looked back towards the desk sergeant, who was grinning from ear to ear, hesitated, and Falls said:

‘Spit it out, he told you to wait for the nigger, is that it? You want to work with me, you better get honest; I can’t stand lies.’

This was a little rich coming from Falls, who told lies all the time, but what the hell? The thing with young people is they tend to believe outrageous crap like that. The woman gave an uncertain smile, said:

‘He told me you’d be late… and that you’d be hung-over… oh, and that you were black as his shoe.’

Falls gave him the look, which he enjoyed immensely, the fuck even winked, and then she asked:

‘What’s your name?’

‘WPC Andrews.’

The pride with which she trotted it out was appalling and, worse, you knew she’d rehearsed it a hundred times, probably in front of a mirror. She’d have a family, a happy mum and dad who were so proud of their little girl. All the frigging neighbours would have turned out to wish her well and they’d watch The Bill with renewed vigour. Falls gave her the fixed stare, said:

‘One of the traits required of a police person is accuracy: an ability to actually listen to the question you are asked. Now let’s try again: what is your name, not your flaming rank and serial number, can you do that?