‘There’s been a break in the case?’

The Super shook his head, seemed weighed down with fatigue, said:

‘The bomb in the canteen has put a different complexion on the whole case.’

Roberts got a real bad feeling: was he being replaced so soon? He said:

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, in light of this… escalation, it has been decided to pay the ransom.’

Roberts couldn’t believe his ears, said:

‘You’ve got to be kidding?’

Brown’s head snapped round and he seemed to be coming out of his trance, said:

‘Don’t take a tone with me, laddie. You think I like this any better than you do? The powers that be want it to go away and, once everything calms down, then we can concentrate on catching them.’

Roberts tried to stay controlled but said:

‘Sir, this is shite. It opens the way for every two-bit hustler to blackmail us. When word gets out we paid, we’re seriously compromised.’

Brown focused and levelled his gaze on Roberts, said:

‘You have your orders, sonny.’

Roberts pushed down the number of replies he wanted to give; it even crossed his mind to resign, which would have been noble. He’d packed in all notions of that after his wife died. The chances were the resignation would be accepted and then what would he do? Return to drinking gut-rot red wine? The Super raised the biscuit, held it over the tea and said:

‘You’re to be the bagman.’

A sad smile leaked from Roberts’ mouth, the Super caught it, asked:

‘What’s the joke, lad?’

‘Bagman, sir, that’s exactly the term the bomber used.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s ironic that we are reduced to being messengers for these kind of thugs.’

‘Irony is not the business of the police.’

‘Maybe it should be, is that all… sir?’

The biscuit was now immersed in the cup and Roberts had to move fast. Brown waved him away. Even outside the door, Roberts could hear the slurping begin. He wasn’t looking forward to informing the team that they were fucked. Plus, he had the money to arrange. Brant was leaning against the door of his office and asked: