Another bomb went off. Same deal, same cheap mechanism, different location.

This time it was the WH Smith bookshop on the concourse at Waterloo railway station. Not too far from the left luggage site. Panic and consternation as commuters ran for their lives. There were no casualties from the explosion but six people were hurt in the stampede.

Ray rang the police and was pissed when he didn’t get Roberts.

Porter Nash, groggy from lack of sleep, fumbled for his new glasses and was seriously angry. He said:

‘You asshole, the money was delivered. What the hell are you playing at?’

The robotic voice was level, amused, disguising the annoyance Ray was actually feeling. It said:

‘Tell you the truth, I’ve got a taste for it.’

‘What?’

‘Where’s Roberts? I don’t like dealing with the hired help; you sound way too emotional to be negotiating. Not a fag, are you?’

Porter, aware he was being taped for the record, tried to rein in, said:

“You got paid, what can it benefit you to keep this going?’

‘Sheee…it as our black brothers say, “I dun’ tol’ you young un’ I got me a taste for this.”‘

Ray was relaxing, he was close to having fun and this cop was so easy to rile. He said:

‘See, you got a clue right there. Am I a brother or playing at it, running the old double bluff?’

Porter, who’d been having chest pains and had resolved to stop smoking, signalled to McDonald for a cig. This took a minute and Porter clicked his fingers; McDonald wasn’t keen on the gesture. The cig was found, a Rothmans — thus funding the South African connection anew — then a lighter.

Porter got his cigarette flamed, drew deep, said:

‘The picture that comes across from all the clues I have is that you are a sick whacko and I promise you this, I am personally going to bring you down. So how you like that clue, bro’?’