A few months ago, the Commissioner of the Met had given an instruction to her officers to go ahead and knock riders off their bikes if there was no other means of stopping them, but this was not universally supported. Protests in the papers and all over social media. Poor little moped riders should be free to throw acid in people’s faces without having the nasty big bully police knock them off and scrape their little knees. And the Independent Office for Police Conduct (IOPC) had recently issued a statement questioning the morality of the Commissioner’s decision.

Morality? thought Roy. Some people had a damned skewed idea of morality.

The car accelerated, drew level with the moped’s rear wheel. Roy could hear the rasping of its exhaust. Saw the rider’s green helmet with some jagged motif on it. His blood boiled as he saw the arrogant stance of the rider, glee in his body language. Glee at what he had done.

‘Knock the bastard off, Dave,’ he commanded.

‘Knock the bastard off, with pleasure, sir.’

Horton swung the car sharply left, striking the centre of the moped’s rear wheel hard. The effect was instant and catastrophic for the machine and its rider.

The rear kicked out hard left, hitting the kerb in front of a Kebab House, catapulting the rider several feet through the air before he struck the ground with his helmet, somersaulted and lay still.

Horton pulled the car up in the middle of the road beside him and the three officers leaped out. Two black youths were racing up to the motionless figure. One of them shouted out at the police, ‘You fucking racist murderers!’

The rider was already stirring, and climbed up onto his knees.

‘What did you do that for, you filth?’ the other youth shouted.

Horton, followed by his colleagues, ran up to the rider before he could get to his feet, silently relieved he wasn’t seriously hurt – to avoid the inquiry that would go with any injury. He grabbed the rider’s right arm, pulled it behind his back and snap-cuffed him. Then he yanked back his left arm and cuffed that, too. Paul Davey, wearing protective gloves, shoved up the rider’s tinted visor and said, ‘You’re nicked, mate.’

Davey began to pat him down, carefully, aware of the youth’s hostile eyes peering out from under his helmet. An instant later, the Inspector pulled out of a pocket a small glass bottle containing a clear liquid, half of which had gone. Shaking with fury, he held it up to the youth. ‘Thirsty? Like a swig, would you?’

The rider was shaking his head, wildly.

‘What’s your name?’ the Inspector asked him.

‘Lee.’

‘Lee? Lee what?’

‘Lee Smith.’

‘So, it’s all right to throw this in someone else’s face, is it, Lee? But you don’t want any yourself? Why’s that? Want to tell me?’

The rider stared in sullen silence.