An explosion rattled the windows. It was followed immediately by the sound of glass smashing and a car leaving tread on tarmac.
Rick Cole said, “What the…?” then he heard a voice from the past. He pressed the phone closer to his ear. “I need a favour. I seem to remember you owe me one.”
Cole answered, “Now ’ s not a good time. Did you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“Sounded like a bomb, in the High Road.”
Cole's door was open. In the main office every phone was ringing. In the corridor coppers were on the move, perked up like sniffer-dogs on heat. Even for old-timers alarm bells and distant sirens were shots of adrenalin.
“How the fuck would I hear it? They could nuke your part of town and I wouldn't hear it from here. Too many council estates between us. Anyway, good times are things of the past. So give me a time?” Cole paused, then, “Midnight.”
“Right. Same place. You remember the place?”
Cole nodded into the phone and hung up. He remembered the place.
Sooner or later it was always going to pull him back. There was nothing more certain, except booze on a copper's breath. He moved into the main office to join the confusion.