Brown was staring at Roberts’ shoes. They were heavy brown Oxfords with a high sheen. Two questions came into his head:

How did he afford them? and

Who’d the time to polish shoes to such a degree?

Pulling his eyes back to the bomb guy, he asked:

‘Any idea who the idiot could be?’

‘Stick a pin in the phone book.’

‘That’s a fucking help all right.’

A smile from the bomb guy and he was gone. Brown turned to Roberts, asked,

‘Where did you get those shoes?’

‘What?’

‘Are you deaf?’

‘Oh, right… ahm, at a sale, at Bally.’

‘Bally!’ Then: ‘How the hell can you afford them?’

‘The house was sold.’

‘That’s an answer?’

‘The only one I’ve got.’

Brown gave the shoes a last look, then:

‘I expect a report on my desk tomorrow morning and keep Brant away from it.’

He strode off, muttering darkly. Roberts was tempted to shout ‘God Bless’ but knew it would be pushing it.

PC Falls had yet again failed the sergeant’s exam. She didn’t take it well, said:

‘Fucking racist bastards.’

Porter Nash, recently promoted to detective inspector, approached, tried:

‘Next time, eh, for sure?’

Falls was the wet dream of the nick but over the last year, she’d acquired a fearsome rep. Despite her pretty face, athletic body, the guys were avoiding her. A rumour had circulated she might have offed a cop killer.

Not a clean offing.

No, the guy had been literally hammered to bits. The Forensics team had found body parts all over the room. His nose was stuck to a widescreen TV. Well, part of the septum at any rate. What they finally decided had to be his left eye was floating in the toilet bowl. Teeth were strewn across the wide bed. When word of the butchery leaked, the possible culprit was definitely assumed to be a cop.