Falls eyed him and, with little affection, a shard of granite across her pupils, said:

‘Everybody knows.’

He let it slide. There’d been a time when he and Falls had been best mates. Almost from the off, they’d bonded, went dancing, drinking together. Then she’d bought into a shitpile of trouble. A skinhead she’d been friendly with was murdered and her life began to spiral. Porter’s promotion had sealed their separation. He was worried by the speed of her drinking. Her trouble with the booze had definitely worked against her attempt at sergeant. He asked:

‘How are you and Nelson doing?’

This was a detective from Vauxhall who’d saved Falls’ job then had begun a relationship with her. Porter had only met him a few times and found him to be aggressive and worse, dull. Vital qualifications for the Met. She signalled for another round then answered:

‘Nelson? Nelson is history.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She let her face show major surprise, gasped:

‘Oh, you knew him?’

‘Not really.’

Now her lip curled and she snarled:

‘Then why the fuck are you sorry? For all you know, I’m well shot of him.’

Porter stood up, shrugged his shoulders

‘I’ll leave you to it.’

A young cop came in, saw them and came over, said:

‘Sir, you’re wanted, it’s the bombing.’

Porter looked at Falls, asked:

‘Coming?’

‘I’m getting bombed here. You run along, do senior officer stuff.’

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