Discussions of such weighty matters require beer. The two of you repair to the snug of the New Justice. A sergeant enjoying a private pint moves next door when he sees who is with you.

The Inspector wipes the beer-foam from his moustache and says, 'Well, you've got to look at our record. We've taken the worst of London's filth off the streets. The Shaker twins. Ma Herriot's gang. And I don't know how many Jacks we've put down. But you're right that the lads can get a bit boisterous. They're good sorts, though. They're good sorts. I just wish there was a better way. But I don't know that there is, in a city like this. I just don't know.'