‘Darius what?’

‘Yeah, Darius What. That’s my name. Darius What.’

Grace nodded. ‘OK, Darius. Do you want to tell me how, before we stopped you, any of us knew you were black?’

The cyclist frowned. ‘That’s why you stopped me, innit?’

Grace shook his head. ‘You’re wearing a mask, a jacket zipped to the neck and gloves. You could have been a Martian inside that lot for all we knew. Riding a bike on a pavement is an offence, but that’s not why we stopped you. Your ethnicity doesn’t come into it, but if you go around wearing a mask that scares and intimidates people, we are going to stop you. It’s early evening, don’t you think it might be frightening for any young children to see that?’ Grace smiled. ‘The way you’re making us feel, we should be the ones in the mask. We’re the monsters and you are OK. Is that right?’

‘What you mean?’

‘What I mean, Darius, is that I care about one thing only, and that’s that ordinary folk can walk down the street – any street they choose – without being afraid, without being intimidated, without someone in a terrifying mask hurtling down the pavement towards them. Am I being racist for wanting that?’

Darius looked at him as if trying to figure him out.

‘Well?’ Grace pressed. ‘I’m not going to search you, I’m not booking you for riding on a pavement, or for riding after dark without any lights, which I could. I’m going to let you go on your way, on one condition.’

‘Condition?’

Grace nodded. ‘One condition.’

‘And that’s, like, what?’

‘That when you get to wherever you are going, you give your mates a message. Will you do that, Darius?’

‘What message?’

‘That not all cops are bastards. Tell them we are your cops, too. We care for everyone, regardless of their colour, their gender or their faith. Tell them to stop mistrusting us and work with us, instead, to help make this city better. Go on your way and give them that message. Tell them we didn’t search you and we didn’t ticket you for riding on the pavement, OK?’

Darius looked at him, warily, as if still waiting for the sting.

‘Tell them what my mum used to tell me,’ Grace said.

‘Huh?’

‘My mum used to tell me: If you’re ever in trouble, go to a policeman.’

‘In your fucking dreams.’ He lowered the mask and raced off, pedalling like fury.

Grace turned to his colleagues with a shrug. ‘Win some, lose some.’

Paul Davey patted him on the back. ‘A ten for effort, boss.’

‘And a one for results, sir,’ Horton added.

And the whole enormity of what they were up against, this vast clash of cultures, hit Roy Grace yet again.