‘Serious wedge.’

He had numerous schemes running, all illegal, that kept him in a style ill-suited to a sergeant in the SE London Met. The brass knew he was dirty, he knew they knew, but proof remained elusive.

Superintendent Brown had tried for years to shaft him.

Unsuccessfully.

Brant was deeply tan. Another feature not common to cops. He’d wrangled his way onto a Police Exchange Scheme in Australia and spent two weeks sydney. To annoy his immediate superior, Chief Inspector Roberts, he now littered his speech with Strine, Oz slang. Roberts, seriously irritated by Brant’s chocola, moved his own tea aside, said:

‘We better get a move on.’

Brant now wished he’d dunked the last of his Club Milk in his tea, few things matched the melting chocolate rush. He reached in his jacket, took out a pack of Peter Jackson, a twenty-five box, as is the norm in Oz.

Plus a battered Zippo. All over the canteen were decals, roaring: SMOKING VERBOTEN.

Well, not in Kraut but with that tone. Roberts sighed as Brant cranked the lighter, an old inscription on the side, barely legible: 1968.

Brant smiled, not his usual wolverine but something near regret, shrugged it off, said:

‘I tell you, sir, the sheilas in Oz were seriously stacked.’

The alliteration was no accident, he’d worked on it, tuned to gain max vexation.

All in the timing. Whatever else, Brant knew the value of timing. Roberts sighed, went:

‘When are you going to get over Australia?’

Brant feigned hurt then:

‘With all due respect, sir, you don’t get over Oz. Ask Bill Bryson.’

Roberts could give a toss who Bryson was, still it was a change if not an improvement that for once Brant wasn’t pushing Ed McBain. The old Penguin editions, the Eighty-seventh Precinct mysteries, Brant had owned them all, every blessed one. Till The Umpire destroyed them. An old case, never closed. Lately, Brant was obsessed with writing, fancied himself an English Joseph Wambaugh, would go: