Plus, to add to his CV he’d recently been diagnosed with diabetes and had moved to type one. This is not an award, on the fucking contrary, it’s heavy weather, you have to inject twice a day. Porter had never tried to hide his gayness. In fact he frequently paraded it through outward gestures, gestures the Carter Street cops believed proved you were gay, like menthol cigs, Barbara Streisand music, a gold bracelet, and, damning proof, a caustic tongue.

But Porter got results and impressive ones. Even Brant, a raging homophobe, gave him grudging respect. Porter had previously been gold in the prize posting of Kensington. Nirvana, the upper echelon of the Met. A question over the beating of a p?dophile led to his transfer.

Initially, he’d made a close bond with Falls, a true merger of minorities, but her spectacular spiral downwards had split them. He missed her.

She detested him.

Had spat:

‘You’re not gay, you’re ambitious.’

Even a faggot couldn’t comprehend this logic. He’d asked:

‘What the hell does that mean?’

She’d glared at him, sparks emphasizing the whiteness of her large eyes, radiant against the black of her skin, said:

‘It means you’re a prick, no pun intended.’

Gay that.

He couldn’t.

The new boyfriend was named Trevor Blake. Porter had met him in a pub near the Oval. Trevor was the barman, in his late twenties, and was riding the stick.

In normal English, pulling pints.

Porter had had a rough day. The Super had carpeted him, said:

‘Listen to this.’

He was holding a letter, his hands trembling with agitation.

Read:

To Supt. Brown

Greetings, sir. See, I have manners. I learnt from Elvis and the novels of Daniel Buckman that manners are the finest manipulation.

Brown paused, adjusted his pince-nez, looked out over them, asked: