As interrogation rooms go, this had to be the worst Kerridge had seen. He could hear the officers chatter through the thin glass of an obviously two-way mirror. The chair was appreciably uncomfortable. That was a good touch, and so was the loud infrequent drip from a leaky pipe. The table they had cuffed him to was paper thin, and so was the door.

“I don’t think you are taking this seriously.”

“See, this guy gets it.” Kerridge gestured to the cop, whose flop sweat gave away the fear he hadn’t been trained to hide.

The second man slammed his hands onto the desk, either side of Kerridge, leaning in with a lit cigarette pursed between dry lips, and a stoney glare. “You better start taking it seriously, kid. Understand the situation you're in. If you can.”

“Kid? Not all of us aged twenty years in the forties. We’re the same age.”

He leaned closer and ground his jaw. The danger would have seemed real, if flop-sweat hadn’t broken the illusion, by being afraid of Kerridge. “Why don’t you try being civilised? Never know, it might work.” Kerridge smiled.

A rumble of chatter came from behind the mirror, and Stoneface sucked in smoke between gritted teeth before, as expected, he pulled away.

“Civilised. Pah. What, you want a coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Kerridge was rewarded with a seething glare that told him he hit his mark.

“Out.” Stoneface told his partner. Kerridge was worried, until the angry cop fell in behind Flop-Sweat, out the door.

“You shoulda hit me.”

Stoneface stopped in the doorway, puffed out a long stream of smoke.

“Woulda if I coulda, kid.”

He gave his best attempt at a non-hostile grin, then slammed the door behind him.

Kerridge liked that one. Just not as a cop.

Five minutes later, Flop-Sweat came back, saying nothing, but placing down a cup of black steaming liquid.

“He couldn’t even bring it to me himself, eh?” Kerridge asked, smiling towards the mirror, knowingly.