Let the hard leak all over the words, then:

‘But the caller said he had information on the shooting.’

Roberts looked like he might hit him, and the sergeant backed off a little. Roberts barked:

‘There isn’t anyone else in the whole station to take the call? Every nutter in South-East London is going to be on the blower claiming he did it. Surely you’re capable of taking a message your own self, you’ve been sat on yer arse long enough to know.’

The slur of being a desk jockey was not lost, and the sergeant let that hang for a moment then said, in an icy voice:

‘Yes sir, and I wouldn’t have bothered you in your moment of tremendous urgency, but the caller did specify you by name and my years of sitting on my… rear… tell me he’s genuine.’

He was well pleased with this, felt it said:

‘Fuck you, Jack, and proper.’

Roberts sighed, brushed past the sergeant, grabbed the phone, spat:

‘This is Roberts.’

Heard:

‘So terribly loath to bother you at a time of obviously deep distress and trauma.’

The voice was rich, cultured, what used to be called a BBC accent, not to mention extremely posh. It immediately got up Roberts’s nose. He demanded:

‘You have information on a shooting?’

His impatience, testiness, was palpable and answered by a full chuckle, it wasn’t laughter, no, it was the sound of someone who was delighted at the response. He mimicked Roberts:

‘ “ A shooting.” You jest, my good fellow. Surely it’s the shooting, or am I overrating the value of our esteemed Detective Sergeant Brant?’

Roberts was gripping the receiver so hard it hurt the palm of his hand. He tried to loosen up in every sense, asked:

‘You have information, is that right?’

Again, the chuckle, a real fun guy, then:

‘Well, old bean, it’s not a social call, pleasurable as that would no doubt be, this is indeed a call with information. Might there be a financial incentive for me to, as they say, “spill the beans.”’