‘Mind if we take a look, Rap Boy?’ Wozza nodded towards the kid’s backpack, which had fallen to the ground in the struggle.

‘Don’t you need a warrant to do that?’ snarled the boy.

I rolled my eyes.

Wozza kneeled down and unzipped the bag. ‘What have we here?’ He pulled out several cans of spray paint.

‘They’re not mine—I’m minding them for a friend,’ muttered the boy.

‘And let me guess,’ I said, touching my chin thoughtfully, ‘you can’t remember the name of this friend?’

The boy glared at me. Kids like this were so predictable. It was as if they all bought a play book when they turned thirteen so that they could recite the same answers to every cop who questioned them.

Sullen. Mouth in a thin line. Eyes narrow.

I took out my small police-issue notebook. ‘Name?’

But the kid was having none of it. He crossed his arms in front of him, face blank.

It was all too much for Frank Forester. ‘You little bastard!’ he said.

‘Sir, that’s not helping,’ I began.

‘Yeah,’ the kid sneered at the solicitor, ‘mind your language.’ Before anyone could stop him, Frank Forester lunged towards the bag and grabbed a can of spray paint. He shook it vigorously, and the ball inside rattled and clacked.

‘Mate, you need to put that down,’ said Wozza, raising his hands in an appeal for calm.

But Frank Forester was beyond listening. He tore the lid off the can and I just had time to jump backwards as he made his own artwork. The boy’s backwards baseball cap suddenly turned lipstick red, and so did his jacket. Forester waved his arms like a conductor, turning the boy’s black skinny jeans and fancy runners a vibrant red. The graffiti artist spluttered in horror as Forester stepped back and admired his handiwork. I studied the canvas from a professional distance; the guy had done a good job. Very Picasso.

The kid looked down at his ruined clothes. His bottom lip quivered and then he burst into tears. ‘Look what you’ve done to my stuff!’ he wailed.

‘Ever heard of irony?’ I said.

Wozza nodded to Forester. ‘You wanna press charges?’

‘No,’ Forester said, laughing. His complexion had returned to normal. ‘I think we’re even.’ He kicked the backpack towards the graffiti artist, who grabbed it and stalked off with as much dignity as his new colour scheme would allow.

‘You know who he is?’ I gestured towards the boy.

Frank Forester shook his head.

I heard the crackle of the police radio from the car. While it was always background noise, I picked up a small change in tone which instantly pushed chatter from the background to the fore.

Wozza caught my eye. He’d heard it too. ‘Gotta go,’ he told Forester.