‘How’s our boy doing?’

Porter said:

‘He’s going to be fine, you want to come for a jar?’

‘Is that like a beer?’

Roberts, already out of all patience, snapped:

‘Do we look like we’re going for a cup of tea?’

And kept moving. The Yank looked to Porter who just shook his head and indicated he should just trail along.

He did.

They went to the Black Lion, recently taken over by a retired cop named Sully They got a table at the rear and Sully limped over, the cause of his retirement. He said:

‘Real sorry to hear about Brant.’

Roberts said:

‘Yeah, bring me a large Scotch and whatever these fellahs want?’

The Yank went into a long query about the variety of beers, and Roberts said:

‘Hey, can you get to it, we’ve had a long fucking day. You want to drink or write a fucking column on ale?’

The Yank was delighted, hostility was his favourite gig. He said:

‘Bring me a pint of that bitter you guys drink, and any chance it might be like chilled.’

Sully said:

‘Not a chance in hell.’

Porter ordered a gin and slim-line tonic, the other two giving him a withering look.

There was a silence as they waited for the drinks, Roberts tapped his fingers on the table, irritating them all, himself most of all, but no one commented.

Porter said:

‘I’d kill for a fag.’

He had been diagnosed as diabetic so cigs were out, but it didn’t stop the craving, in fact, not being able to made it worse. Roberts laughed and Porter realized what he’d said… thought, uh-oh, Fag for a fag. It eased the tension, and the Yank put out his hand to Roberts, said:

‘We haven’t been introduced, I’m L. M. Wallace and you’re Roberts, the chief inspector?’