“Yes, Sergeant, I understand.” Webster almost spat the words out.

“So what do you want?”

“I want to know where the hell this Frost character has got to. I’m supposed to be working with him. Two hours ago he dumps six months’ filing on me and says he won’t be a tick. I’m still sitting in that pigsty of an office, waiting.”

A malicious smile slithered across the sergeant’s face. “You want something to do then, Constable?”

Webster gritted his teeth, trying to stop his irritation from showing. The way these yokels took a childish delight in emphasising the word ‘constable’. But he wouldn’t let them see they were getting through to him.

“Yes, Sergeant. I want something to do.”

“Right,” said Wells, smiling. “You can make the tea.”

“Make it?”

“We won’t get any tea from the canteen, Webster. It’s out of bounds to the workers. So you’ll have to make it manually, which I trust is not beneath the dignity of an ex-inspector? There’s a kettle and o’her stuff in the washroom. Brew up enough for six.” He lowered his head and returned to his entry in the log book.

Webster didn’t move.

Wells raised his head. “Is there a problem, Constable, something in your orders that you don’t understand?”

Webster’s face was rigid with fury. “You want me to make the tea?” He said it as if he had received an improper suggestion.

Wells chucked his pen down and bounced back Webster’s glare with a scorcher of his own. “Yes, Constable. Any objections?”

“Yes,” snapped Webster, jerking a thumb at young Collier, who was hovering by the lobby door, anxiously peering out into the road. “What about him? Why can’t he do it?”

“Because he is doing a very important job for Mr. Mullett. And anyway, why should he be the tea boy instead of you? You’re both the same rank… you’re both constables… or have you forgotten?”