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wasn't even on the agenda. There was no sex at all. During his five years at the very pinnacle of the profession, teenage pregnancies fell by 15 per cent.
    And then one day something dreadful happened.
    He grew up.
     
    Stirling had a big smile on his face now. He patted Corrigan's arm. 'Frank, Frank. Somedays, somedays the light just shines on you. There was me thinking, god damn this town's been quiet for too fucking long. You know how quiet it's been . . .'
    'I know how quiet it's been.'
    'Then, there I am driving back to base and there's a fucking accident beside the river. Coke lorry runs over a little girl, fifteen years old. Kills her. Squashes her.'
    'That's nothing to laugh about, Mark.'
    'No. Of course it isn't.' The smile hadn't slipped any. 'But the joke is, Frank, the fucking joke is – she fell out of Pongo's car. He was fucking her in the back seat and she fell out.'
    'He tell you this?'
    'No – he's too fucking out of it. His driver did. He's scared shitless. I check the car out, what do I find? A fucking pound of coke. A pound, Frank. Sitting there in a fucking cookie jar.'
    'OK, Mark. Very good. I await the punchline.'
    The grin slipped a little. 'OK, maybe it's not a joke. Maybe it's more like your black comedy. Frank, c'mon, a genuine pop star, the kids love him, their folks love him too, he's as clean as Santa Claus – and we can tie him into the death of a little girl and with enough coke to keep half of Toronto happy. They'll destroy him.'
    'And that's your idea of a funny?'
    'No, Frank, I'm not thinking of him, I'm thinking of us. The whole fucking world will descend on us. TV. Radio. Newspapers. One thing they like at headquarters is good publicity. We're talking promotion, big promotion. We're talking the front of Police Review. We're talking celebrity. The guys that nailed Pongo.'
    'And that's why all the cloak and dagger?'
    'That's why all the cloak and dagger. We control this, it'll be the making of us.'
    'Mark?'
    'What?'
    'What about the girl?'
    'Like I say, squashed.'
    'Her name, Mark, her name. What about her parents?'
    'Katharine. Katharine Stewart. She's in the morgue. I haven't contacted her parents yet, Frank. I wanted to run this past you first.'
    'Run what past me?'
    'The interviews.'
    'Jesus Christ, Mark. There's a dead girl out there and all you can think about is interviews.'
    'I can't do anything about the dead girl, Frank. But I can do something about Mister Celebrity cokehead in there.' He slapped his hand against the cell door. His face had coloured a bit and he was looking at Corrigan as if he was the crazy one. 'I arrested him, why shouldn't I benefit from it? You can be fucking sure somebody will; why shouldn't it be me? Or us? Look, I'm cutting you in and all you can do is piss on it. I thought you'd be up for it.'
    Corrigan sighed. 'Look, Mark, I'm not trying to piss on it. I just . . . fuck, get a statement from him first, OK. One step at a time, OK?'
    'But we can keep it under wraps?'
    'We'll keep it under wraps for a while. Sure. It's the middle of the night. See what he has to say.'
    'He keeps asking for the FBI.'
    'He knows he's in Canada?'
    Stirling nodded. 'Sure. Keeps saying we're too small.'
    Stirling stepped out of the way as Corrigan moved to the cell door, then pushed it wide with his foot. He stood in the entrance shaking his head at the forlorn figure inside, the Artist Formerly Known as Pongo.

8
    Corrigan suspected that someone, somewhere, was doing a rain dance. It was a little after 5.30 a.m. and it had been pouring since shortly after he was born. It never rains but it pours. The psycho Indian over the Falls, and Pongo in the cells. Neither of them talking. Well, one of them ranting in an ancient language, the other hugging his knees and repeating FBI, FBI for hours on end.
    He needed to get cleaned up. There would be camera crews and photographers there in the morning. Hundreds of them. They'd decided to keep the Pongo thing quiet, but word would have