‘Shut the fuck up. Jesus!’

She did.

Brant watching, gave a huge smile, said:

‘Welcome to the Met.’

The bomb had been posted to the canteen and Gladys had left it until later. Roberts gathered his team and as they took their seats, the phone went. He picked up, heard the metallic voice:

‘Sorry to interrupt your tea but this was a little incentive to get you up to speed. Remember the deadline, and now you know how vulnerable you are.’

Click.

Roberts looked round the room, said:

‘The Super is going to throw a blue fit. Did anyone ever think to monitor the post?’

Nobody had. They went back to assessing the results so far and concluded they had nothing. Later, the Bomb Squad reported that the bomb was the same as the previous two but had been designed to frighten rather than maim.

Roberts sighed, said:

‘Like that’s going to save my ass.’

When he got to finally see the Super, he was dreading the bollocking he knew was coming. Brown was having his afternoon tea, a Kimberley biscuit on the saucer. Roberts knew from horrendous experience that the Super dunked the biscuit and then strained it between his teeth, making loud slurping sounds as he did so. It was on a par with Imelda Marcos singing ‘Impossible Dream’ or William Shatner’s version of ‘Bridge Over Troubled Waters’. If anything, it probably had the edge in grotesqueness. To Roberts’ amazement, Brown was strangely subdued and the anticipated roaring might not be on the cards after all.

Brown took ages to look up, then finally:

‘There have been some developments.’

Roberts dared to hope, said: