‘Sorry to hear about Brant.’

‘Course, word would have spread all over the South-East, Brant downed at last. She muttered something, and the guy interpreted it as keep the change. She liked this pub, no cops, lots of villains, but then where didn’t?

The barman, surly git, growled:

‘What will it be?’

He hadn’t twigged her for the heat, or he’d have changed his tone. Falls said:

‘Large gin and tonic and a pack of B amp; H.’

The guy sniggered, said:

‘See that machine over there, the one that says “cigarettes” in large bright letters, guess what it’s for?’

Falls was tired, and the letter in her bag was burning a hole. She leaned over to the guy, said:

‘I’m Sergeant Falls, and I’m in a real fucking bad frame of mind, so how about you bring me what I ordered. I’ll be sitting over there in the corner.’

He did.

Even had the cellophone off the packet, one of the cigs perked up, Falls gave him a tenner and poured a tiny hint of the tonic in the glass, no need to screw up perfectly fine gin with tonic. She knocked back a sizeable wallop, sat back, waited for the jolt. It came fast and she let out a barely audible sigh. The guy brought her change and she snapped:

‘Same again.’

She was going to be massacred, see what the night would produce then. She waited till she was half through her second double before she allowed herself to think about the letter.

A time back, the Vixen case, a particularly nasty psycho named Angie, who took out two brothers and countless more they only suspected. Worse, she had deliberately targeted Falls, became her friend. And Falls, she cringed, despite the gin, blushed,… Jesus, the memory… on one very drunken occasion… her lover. It had nigh on destroyed her career and only a miracle in the form of Brant had saved her arse.