“No. But that’s where the Probation Service have him lodged, according to LIO.” “And he’s been properly nicked for a relevant, arrestable offence?” “By me at 1223 hours, not at the premises I’m after searching.” “Couldn’t you just hit him with your stick? Why did you have to use a car?” “Not ideal, but it did stop him running. Silly bastard made me break a sweat but nobody cries about that. Don’t get me started on my bunions. It’s just not fair.” “So how long will he be out of the game?” “Christ knows. Bed rest with free drugs has got to appeal more than a concrete bunk and sweaty cops shouting at you.” “Balls.” “Indeed.” “Right, well, give the hospital some stick. Find somebody who’s pro and get him discharged pronto. Little prick’s messed up my wall chart.” “Tossing his flat’s a good way to fill some time.” “Mmm. Yes. Your warrant. And you’re looking for?” D.I. Ray Newbould held his fountain pen poised millimetres above the signature space on the search form and flexed his eyebrows.
