I'd heard that in various iterations since I was wee. Didn't faze me when Mrs Burke said it to me in first school, and it sure as shite didn't faze me now. When he said it, DS McDonald paced the floor, his shoulders hunched over. He probably thought it made him look like Vic Mackey. He looked more like the Commish. And now he was speaking freely, he'd found a familiar tone, one that reminded me of judges, probation officers and the social. People who thought they knew better. Received knowledge in the place of actual knowledge. I kept it shut. It was always best to treat the police like a three-bob ball-gazer. The less you said, the more control you kept. And this bastard here was trying to peddle my future into prison, so I wasn't about to give him any help. McDonald stopped in front of the door. He sniffed again. He started to say something, then held up a hand. He went into his jacket pocket for his tissue, honked into it, then sniffed again.
