‘They’re a neo-punk thrash band,’ said Bigmac.

‘A music band?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘And we would have heard them on the wireless, perhaps?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Bigmac. ‘Their last single was “I’m going to rip off your head and spit down the hole”.’

‘“Rip off your head—”’ said the policeman, who was taking notes.

‘“—and spit down the hole”,’ said Bigmac helpfully.

‘This watch of yours with the numbers on it,’ said the captain. ‘I see it’s got little buttons, too. What happens if I press them?’

The policeman tried to move away a little.

‘The one on the left lights it up so you can see it in the dark,’ said Bigmac.

‘Really? And why would you want to do that?’

‘When you wake up in the night and want to know what time it is?’ Bigmac suggested, after some deep thought.

‘I see. And the other button?’

‘Oh, that’s to tell you what time it is in another country.’

Everyone suddenly seemed very interested.

‘What other country?’ said the captain sharply.

‘It’s stuck on Singapore,’ said Bigmac.

The captain laid it down very carefully. The sergeant wrote out a label and tied it to the watch strap. Then the captain picked up Bigmac’s jacket.

‘What is this made of?’ he said.

‘I dunno. Some kind of plastic,’ said Bigmac. ‘They sell them down the market.’

The captain pulled it this way and that.

‘How is it made?’

‘Ah, I know that,’ said Bigmac. ‘I read about it. You mix some chemicals together, and you get plastic. Easy.’

‘In camouflage colours,’ said the captain.

Bigmac licked his lips. He was sure that he was in deep trouble, so there was no sense in pretending.

‘That’s just to make you look hard,’ he said.

‘Hard. I see,’ said the captain, and his eyes didn’t give away whether he really saw or not. He held up the back of the jacket and pointed to two words done rather badly in biro.

‘What exactly are BLACKBURY SKINS?’ he said.

‘Er. That’s me and Bazza and Skazz. Er. Skinheads. A … kind of gang …’

‘Gang,’ said the captain.

‘Er. Yes.’

‘Skinheads?’

‘Er … the haircut,’ said Bigmac.

‘Looks like an ordinary military haircut to me,’ said the sergeant.

‘And these,’ said the captain, pointing to the swastikas on either side of the name. ‘Gang badges, are they? Also to make you look … hard?’

‘Er … it’s just … you know … Adolf Hitler and that,’ said Bigmac.

All the men were staring at him.

‘It’s just decoration,’ said Bigmac.

The captain put the coat down very slowly.

‘It’s nothing to get excited about,’ said Bigmac. ‘Where I come from, you can buy badges and things down the market, you can get Gestapo knives—’

‘That’s enough!’ said the captain. ‘Now listen to me. You’ll make it easier on yourself if you tell me the truth right now. I want your name, the names of your contacts … everything. A unit is coming from headquarters and they aren’t as patient as I am, do you understand?’