Just one hour to go. Hartigan's polishing his badge and working himself up to kissing it good-bye, it and the thirty-odd years of protecting and serving and tears and blood and triumph that it represents. He's thinking about his wife's slow smile, about the thick, fat steaks she's picked up at the butcher's, about the bottle of champagne she's got packed in ice, about sleeping in till ten in the morning and spending sunny afternoons flat on his back...