Porter sighed, said:

‘There’s nothing to see, the office is closed. What are they going to do, break in?’

The cop shrugged. He had to spend the night anyway so he didn’t give a toss either way.

Porter went to get a coffee and was outraged at the price, said to the assistant:

‘That’s a bit steep.’

‘Yeah, this is a mainline station, what do you expect?’

Porter moved away, thinking everybody had an answer, none of them civil. He wondered where the hell Roberts was. Got out his phone, dialled the number. When it was answered, Porter could hardly hear for the background noise, asked:

‘Chief Inspector?’

‘Yes, is that you, Porter? Has there been some action?’

‘Ahm, no sir, all’s quiet. I was just checking in; er, are you at a party, sir?’

Brief flurry of talk, then Roberts bellowed:

‘A party, when there’s a major case in progress, are you out of your mind? Who’s got time to play?’

‘Sorry, sir, it just sounded busy where you are.’

‘’Course it’s busy, this is London, a busy town.’

And he rang off.

Porter muttered:

‘Drunk as a skunk.’

Porter Nash moved back to the watching position and asked the constable:

‘Anything?’

‘Not a button. You’d think there be more action in a train station.’

‘It’s Friday night, people have already gone home.’

The guy looked at Porter Nash, considered, then went for it:

‘That’s why they pay you the big bucks.’

Then to Porter’s amazement, the guy took out his cigarettes. Porter said:

‘Smoking? Tell me you’re kidding.’

He put them away and resolved to tell the guys that Porter was as tight-assed as they’d suspected.

When Roberts had followed Brant into the house at the Oval, he’d been near-deafened from the volume of the music. Worse, it sounded like that hip-hop his daughter listened to. The front room was jammed and Roberts realised it was all women. He asked Brant: