‘Task force? Are you bonkers? It’s some piddling lunatic trying to get his moment of fame. Shut him down now.’

Porter wanted to ask: ‘How?’

Settled for:

‘Yes, sir.’

Outside he realized he was sweating, used a hankie to wipe his brow, and heard:

‘Hot enough for you?’

Brant.

Porter tried to shrug it off, said:

‘It’s this Manners case. Probably nothing.’

Brant smiled, then:

‘You ask me, it’s going to run and run.’

Porter, horrified, said:

You can’t be serious.’

‘Serious as AIDS.’

And was gone.

Brant was on a roll. He and Roberts had gone to meet with Caz, the snitch. Met him in a pub; as usual he was wearing a garish shirt. He wasn’t happy that Brant had broken the rules and brought along Roberts. The whole fragile basis of snitching depended on one-to-one.

Brant was unfazed, said:

‘So I broke the rules, get over it.’

Roberts was unimpressed with Caz and expected it to be a waste of time. He was wrong. When Brant asked about the car-ring, Caz not only knew about it but provided the address of the garage where the operation was and the names of the three central villains. Brant sat back and said:

‘Nice one, Caz.’

Caz, fingering his gold medallion, asked:

‘Do I get paid now?’

Brant nodded, said:

‘The cheque’s in the post.’

And they were out of there. Roberts had been scoring a hundred out of a hundred of his cases recently. No matter what he turned to, it seemed he had the Midas touch. Now, yet again, he was about to look gold. When the cops raided the garage for the hot cars, the first one they recovered was the Super’s. He took Brant for a celebratory drink a few nights later. They went to a place on Charing Cross Road, newly opened. The owner was an ex-cop, and, whatever else, they’d drink free.