‘What did you say?’

‘Here’s the deal. For the next week or so, outside the station, I want you to behave like a total animal, treat people like dirt, insult them at every opportunity, be as bad-mannered as you can imagine, act like you’re PMT. Think you can do that?’

She reached for her drink, took it neat without a mixer, needed to taste the bitter wallop of raw alcohol.

She felt it.

Brant had sat back, downed his fresh pint in nearly one swallow, belched, said:

‘Ah.’

Falls had a moment of clarity, then a gallop of rage, and nearly spat:

‘It’s the Manners case, right? You want me to smoke him out?’

Brant was delighted, said:

‘See, I knew you’d get it.’

She wanted to reach in her bag, take out the knuckleduster, and let him ‘get it.’

Without asking, she reached over, took one of his cigs, and to her amazement, he lit it for her. She said:

‘A decoy, that’s the deal, isn’t it?’

‘Exactly.’

She needed to chill and without a word got up, went to the bar, ordered a round of drinks. The barman tried to smile at her, let her know he was with her, but she blanked him and he thought, Fuck her. When she got back, Brant grabbed his drink, said:

‘Here’s to better days.’

She didn’t join the toast, simply downed the vodka and now she was chilled, said:

‘You’re in no doubt I’ll do it, despite the fact I’ve been down this road before and nearly gotten killed.’

He shrugged, said:

‘What? You’ve got a choice? You’re on the road to nowhere, I’m giving you a chance to get back in the game. And the last time, who saved your pretty ass?’

Last time had been the Clapham Rapist. McDonald was supposed to be back-up but didn’t follow through. Without Brant, she’d have been history. Brant said: