Brant was on his third whisky, knocking it back like a good un. He was feeling real bad, Ed McBain was dead, and nothing could ease the loss he felt. He muttered:

‘Fuck.’

The barman, highly attentive to Brant’s needs, asked:

‘Yes?’

Brant gave him the granite eyes, said:

‘I want something, you’ll know.’

Brant’s rep was legendary. In South-East London, he was feared by cops and villains alike. Numerous attempts had been made by the brass to get rid of him, but he had survived every effort.

London was in a state of high alert. Since the terrorist attacks, an air of paranoia ruled. It wasn’t that the populace wondered if the bombers would strike again, but a question of where and when.

The only hero Brant had ever had was McBain, and he’d collected all the novels. He had the latest one. Alas, now the final one, and he couldn’t bring himself to read it. He was about to shout another drink when he heard:

‘Sergeant?’

He turned to see Porter Nash, the recently promoted Porter Nash, dressed in a very flash suit. Porter was the only openly gay cop on the squad and was probably their best investigator. Brant, who hated everyone, had an unlikely friendship with him. Neither of them could quite figure out why they enjoyed each other’s company, but fuck, go figure, they just went with it. Brant said:

‘Some suit.’ Porter took the stool beside Brant, asked:

‘You like it?’

Brant signalled for the barman, took a long look at the suit, said:

‘It helps if you’re gay.’

Porter laughed, most times it was the only way to go. You had dealings with Brant, you needed a great sense of humour or a sawn-off. Brant ordered two large whiskies and Porter protested:

‘I wanted some vodka.’