Falls tried not to smile, two days was exactly right. He wasn’t finished:

‘Yeah, my dog, they smashed his head in with something, probably a baseball bat.’

Andrews tried for a professional tone, enquired:

‘What type of dog?’

‘What type of dog? A fucking dead dog.’

Falls held up a finger, cautioned,

‘Mind your language, sir. Now, how do you know they used baseball bats?’

He gave a vicious smile, seemed delighted she’d asked as if he’d been storing it up, said:

‘Yer darkies, they use bats, they can’t afford golf clubs.’

Falls wasn’t put out, she was used to this crap, said:

‘I see a space on the wall there. Was there a picture taken?’

The memory of the sale pleased him and he said:

‘Some space cadet, he was in, having a pint and he spots the painting, has to have it. I paid, like, two nicker for it at a garage sale. Have a guess how much I got the dumb bastard for?’

As Falls didn’t venture, Andrews said:

‘From your tone, obviously a lot.’

‘You betcha, sweetmeat: a hundred smackers, what do you think of that?’

Falls asked:

‘And he was black, was he?’

The guy was confused, asked:

‘Black, why?’

‘Well, you said he was dumb, so I presumed he was black, given your views.’

He stared more closely at Falls, then:

‘Are you fucking with me? You better remember who’s paying your bloody salary.’

Andrews piped up:

‘You have already been cautioned about your language.’

He gave a snort of derision, pushed past them, said:

‘Bollocks.’

Andrews caught his arm, turned him and kneed him in the balls. He fell to his knees, roaring like a bull. It was hard to guess who was more surprised, him or Falls. Andrews said:

‘Now you’re cautioned.’