‘You better have a very valid reason for disturbing him.’

And hung up.

The Super answered with a gruff:

‘Who the hell is this?’

Not a very promising opening, Porter ploughed on:

‘It’s Porter Nash, sir.’

Silence for a moment, then:

‘I’m in the middle of a round of golf. This better be good.’

Porter took a deep breath, said:

‘Sergeant Brant has been shot.’

No hesitation now:

‘Is he dead?’

‘No, sir, he’s going to pull through, thank god.’

Porter could hear Brown tell someone else and presumed he was already pulling out all the stops, getting all personnel mobilized, Brown said:

‘You might thank god, laddie, others would see it differently.’

Porter knew that Brant had been a constant problem to Brown and all the brass, but he’d expected at least a show of vague concern.

Nope.

Wasn’t going to get it. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice, asked:

‘Would you like the details of the shooting, sir?’

‘You think they’ll improve my chances of getting on the green in less than two strokes?’

Roberts was staring at Porter, obviously aware of how it was going, Porter said:

‘No sir, I don’t see how it could possibly improve your… performance.’

Porter could have been mistaken but he heard what sounded awfully like a titter?

Brown said:

‘Tell Roberts, he’s his mate, if an animal like Brant could be said to have such. Personally I doubt it.’

Click.

Roberts watched Porter slam the mobile on the palm of his hand, said:

‘He was full of concern I’d guess.’

Porter wanted to hit somebody, said:

‘He was full of shit is what he was.’

Roberts thought there might be hope for Porter yet and asked him if he fancied a pint? And to his astonishment, Porter agreed, giving his number to the nurses station lest there be any change. On their way out, a large man stopped them, asked in a Yank accent: