Roberts was in the pub, nursing a pint of Bitter, still hurting from his night on the tiles with Brant. The door opened and Porter Nash approached, asked:

‘May I join you, sir?’

Roberts liked Porter, felt he was a fine cop and admired the way he handled his sexual orientation. Porter had been feeling extremely well, his relationship with Trevor was, not to pun too obviously, cruising, and the regular sex was positively rejuvenating. The only bad moment had been when, early in the morning, Trevor had found him with the hypo, asked, without too much shock:

‘You’re a junkie?’

‘Diabetic’

Trevor thought about it, said:

‘Bummer.’

Later, he’d asked:

‘Is it true that you have to be really careful about your feet, that if you get a cut, you could easily need amputation?’

Porter had stressed that it was rare for such a scenario to happen, but Trevor had already lost interest.

Porter now asked Roberts if he wanted a drink. He declined and Porter sat, said:

‘Can I run something by you?’

Roberts nodded so Porter began:

‘You’ll know about this “Manner’s Killer” or alleged killer. I’ve been checking on recent accidents and two last week might be termed suspicious.’

Roberts hadn’t touched his pint, seemed content to stare at it, said:

‘Tell me about them.’

‘One was a drowning in a bath, hard to say if it was an accident till we get the post-mortem to see if alcohol or drugs were present. The second was a hit and run. I interviewed work colleagues, friends, and guess what?’