In the frame were:

Of course… Brant. He topped the list of any wrong doing: he was your ‘given’. No decent odds ever on him.

Next, as a rank outsider, was Porter Nash because in his Kensington days, he’d dished out personal justice to a paedophile.

Falls was not seriously considered at first but, over time, speculation and rumour had moved her to top of the list.

Number one with a bullet.

Sergeant Brant had long been the bete noire of south-east London. Villains and cops alike were united in their fear of him. He relished and encouraged his status as ‘an animal’. The accidental death of the Clapham Rapist was attributed to him. This outlaw justice was secretly admired by most ranks. Over the years Superintendent Brown had tried unsuccessfully to get rid of him. Despite his disappointment, the senior officer still cherished dreams of discrediting the sergeant.

Falls, turning on Porter, put her hands on her hips, tried to bite down her bile but it wasn’t working. She spat:

‘Next time? You condescending prick, have you any idea how often I’ve sat that bloody exam?’

Porter glanced round nervously; the other cops were getting an earful and hoping for more. He put his hand out, touched her shoulder, said:

‘Let me get you some tea.’

She stormed off and Porter, at a loss, stared at her back. The desk sergeant, an obnoxious bollix, gave him the thumbs up. Porter sighed and took off, just in time to see her disappear into the Cricketers pub. When he entered, Falls was already at a corner table. He approached, asked:

‘What’ll you have?’

‘I’m getting it. I ordered for you too.’

Porter looked towards the barman. He thought he imagined it but did the guy wink? Jesus.

Porter sat down and Falls asked:

‘You still smoking or has your promotion put a stop to simple pleasures?’