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into the shabby Squad room at New Scotland Yard on the Embankment. The rectangular space was dominated by the rows of desks where the eight teams did their paperwork. Along one wall was a bank of telephone booths. The air was rich with cigarette smoke, stale sweat, foul language and jokes in questionable taste. But to Billy it smelled sweeter than roses.
    Naughton's first task was to check in with the Duty Sergeant, see what was in the message book and which outstanding warrants needed typing up. But there was always a small pause after he entered where he looked around the smoke-filled room - much of it Old Holborn generated by a couple of dedicated pipe-puffers - at the group of men, The Big House's finest, and almost pinched himself, unable to believe he was one of the elite. The tricky part, he knew, was staying in it.
    DS Len 'Duke' Haslam, his face all sharp lines and widow's peak, threw a thumbs-up in greeting. He'd earned his nickname from his spot-on impersonation of John Wayne. He was able to nail it all, from the lazy drawl to the rolling gait, and he claimed to have seen The Alamo six times. Duke was the senior partner in their two-man team, assigned to show Billy the ropes. Unlike many others clobbered with a rookie, Duke didn't mind having a fledgling to nurse. Although only in his early thirties, Len believed in traditional coppering - and that included being free with your knowledge.
    'DC Naughton! Line Four.'
    The operator's deep baritone boomed over the hubbub of conversation. Naughton raised a hand in acknowledgement and crossed to the battered booth. Like all of them, its walls were defaced by hastily scribbled numbers and names, some of them going back twenty years, and the cubicle not only stank of fags, but there seemed to be lingering undertones of whisky-breath too. He wondered if Bill Cunningham, a DS notorious for his DTs, had been using the telephone before him.
    'Naughton, Flying Squad.'
    'You love saying that, don't you, you smug cunt? Naughton, Flying Squad, oh and possessor of the biggest cock in Scotland Yard. And the biggest head.'
    Naughton laughed. 'Hello, Stanley, what got your goat?'
    Harold 'Stanley' Matthews had gone through police training at Hendon with Billy Naughton. They had boxed together and played football, later on opposing teams when they ended up in different districts. Naughton though, had slipped ahead in the promotion race, with Matthews trailing behind. Stanley was now an Aide to CID at Chelsea, his old job. Billy Naughton had never let on that he had recommended him to his DI before he left Chelsea, was the one who had got him out of uniform, away from the dullness of Brentford.
    'Been on Early Turn. Got here at five-thirty. You lads swan in at. . . what time is it? Bleedin' nine o'clock gone. You lot think villains punchin those hours?'
    Naughton laughed. 'Most of the villains I know don't get up till midday - don't even know there are two eleven o'clocks in a day. How's Chelsea?'
    Stanley dropped the pretence of irritation. 'Good. I'm on the footie team already. And bagged a police flat off Holland Park. Hayley is well chuffed. Well, mostly.'
    Billy Naughton knew Hayley, Stanley's young wife, and liked her, but like most non-Force wives, she didn't fully understand The Job. He was glad he hadn't been saddled with a missus yet. He had quickly discovered what a hindrance they were to ambitious Squad officers.
    'Hayley will have to get used to the fact that there's a bit more to do after-hours than Brentford,' he said. Whereas the suburbs had very little nightlife, Chelsea was full of pubs, clubs, not to mention celebrities. You couldn't throw a stone down the King's Road without hitting an actor or an artist or a pop star.
    'Just a little. And it's more interesting. We had this bird in yesterday,' Stanley went on. 'She was a bit of a looker, demanding we arrest her boyfriend for pulling out her pubic hair. To prove it—'
    Naughton laughed as he interrupted. 'She hoiked