Roberts, to celebrate his success, had splurged on a new suit, bought in Marks and Spencer. He felt it was only right as their fortunes had recently taken a turn for the best. Winners together. He selected a brown pin-striped number as the salesgirl, who appeared to be from Bosnia, assured him it was the style of the season. He winced a little at the price, but what the hell, the sale of his house had given him a little extra and promotion was surely but a stripe away.

Brant appeared in a sweat-shirt that bore the logo: EAT SHIT.

And stone-faded jeans that had a tiny hole in the knee. Roberts said:

‘You’re bloody kidding.’

‘What?’

‘I thought we were doing a class number?’

Brant fingered a tiny pin of a silver bird on his sweat-shirt, mocked:

‘Ah, Guv, you think class is about clothes?’

He was forever hectoring Roberts that class was about exactly that, which was one of the reasons Roberts had laid out the small ransom for his suit. The ex-cop, waiting patiently behind the bar, smiled at the exchange. He knew all about Brant. Mainly that he was a contrary fucker. He was appalled that Roberts was wearing what appeared to be a shit-coloured suit. Brant looked to him, went:

‘Jim-bo, a pint of your best ale for the star of the Met and a large Jameson.’

Roberts whined: ‘I’m drinking beer?’

Brant, who was reaching for his Peter Jacksons, said:

‘Sir, in that outfit, I’m afraid it has to be beer.’

Roberts was offended, asked:

‘You don’t like the suit?’

Brant gave it a full, intense scrutiny, and, his lip curled. He said:

‘You really shouldn’t buy stuff in the market.’

‘Market? This is from Marks and Spencer. Do you know how much this cost?’

He could hardly get the words out from rage.

Brant reached over, felt the lapel, said: