Whittaker passed Brick a tumbler of a rather coarse whiskey which he took willingly. He sniffed the rim of the glass and raised his moss-brows at the old desk sergeant.

'Helps with the sciatica,' he responded with a playful whimsy.

'I don't have sciatica.'

Whittaker nodded profusely. 'Indeed but if you did,' he said, pointing at the glass, 'this would help.'

The Inspector smiled and sunk the whiskey into his stone gullet. As he did this a bizarre beeping noise started emanating from his long trench coat and the detective pulled out the device. His moss-brows lurched upward, gaining the curiosity of Whittaker.

'Something interesting?'

'Could well be . . .'

The stone detective stood up and placed the glass on the desk. 'Thanks for the drink.'

'You're welcome,' replied the old desk sergeant. 'Where are you going now?'

Brick pulled the trench coat across his massive shoulders. 'Fishing?'

He walked from the library with a casual swagger and proceeded to light a cigarillo before he had even cleared the library.

'See you around, sarge.'

'Those things will kill ya.'

'So will this damn job eventually.'

Brick opened the door and it slid back and shut itself.

Whittaker mulled over his friend's last words and shook his head, returning to his crossword before realising he needed to lock the door.

Brick drove ol'war horse to the top of Brentish and then down into the steep incline of Eshreet. The early hours of Mosrat were a sight to behold. Drunken revelers asleep on the roadside. Couples swooning in dark alley retreats and cramped phone boxes. Brick took a draw on his cigarillo as he turned off from the Eshreet Boulevard and headed north on the circular to the borough of Caneche.

A couple of young Hotch men slapped and kicked at each other as their beaus looked on, the local Watch trying miserably to separate the fracas. Brick nearly pulled over to twat them all for fighting in the road but his location beeper was saying his quarry was still on the move. He didn't want to waste the time. Instead he pulled down his window and shouted a mild form of abuse making the women giggle.

Caneche. The Eshreet overflow. For those buoyant of pocket Brentish was always the place to be. The hub of high living for those who could afford it. Eshreet bordered on the periphery, one tier down from the high classes but close enough for the keen play actors who spoke of rich but strutted with a chain of underlying debt to their ankles. Caneche then was for the ones who had their ankles cut from beneath them. Who spoke of money and high living but ignored the banks and their reprisals. Those who had procured and lost but retained a modicum of self-respect. Just.

Brick came off the circular and followed the trail down into the Fields of Kenderstett, the oldest living borough in Testament.

Centuries ago when the first people made landfall on the Construct, a group of noblemen made the split island of Frugalmeyer their home, here within the amalgamated décor of ancient and new history had flowered.

It was here in the bare fields where they dug the foundations of the city, where they toiled and bled to the last burning star in creation. Builders and architects shared tents and toilets, cooked whatever meats may come their way. Gained the warmth of a brother from heat of skin in the cold months, shed sweat in the summer to the testament of the city they built on the fields of Kenderstett.

It was the only bit of history he really knew. Over the rolling years of history and the degradation of grammar, Kenderstett, whoever the fella may have been, slowly, eventually evolved into the title of Caneche.

The foundations of Testament started here, millennia ago, probably over there near Ramsbottom's bakery, possibly. Humans and Sub-Human came to the fields to work and earn. Then Hotch and Da'ka, Krazzi and Nesscalite, Oskra and Jenx. Language segued, moulded and beaten; nouns and pronouns frayed and wilted. The assimilation of a thousand dialects became one, a flowering language of Frugalmeyan.

Kenderstett. Caneche.

Ground zero.

Brick pulled his car up to the curb, opposite Ostager's. A rather grimy little takeaway of Jenx cuisine. It smelt awful, then again, so did the drains. The proprietor leaned over the counter and waved his unusually fat finger at the detective to which Brick responded with a raised finger and a quick show of his Watch badge hidden beneath the lapel of his trench coat. Not easily deterred, Ostager - possibly - shook his head vigorously, his ears flapping like a kite in the wind. Jenx were incredibly stubborn. Brick then pulled his coat out a little and revealed Brenda sitting in his holster. The animated little man looked away quickly.

Brick pulled the coat back down and lit a cigarillo, the tracer in his hand leading him up the grimy street toward the motel of Glockhaven. His quarry was still now, standing in a room in the north east corner of the building.

Half a dozen Hotch boys came staggering down the street, cajoling and play fighting, giving the burly detective a reasonable wide birth. He let out a flume of smoke.

'Wise lads,' he said, smiling to himself.

He crossed the road and gave the motel a quick once over. The tracer still telling him that his quarry was still stationery.

A thought suddenly struck him and realised that it wasn't his quarry that was standing still, but his bug!

'Shit.'

He waded through the foyer of Glockhaven like a bulldozer. The manager asking him to come back. He just showed his badge and told him to sit still.

The Krazzi pelted up the stairs and made for the north east corner, kicking himself subconsciously for being so stupid.

It was at least four floors up. He thought about the lift and then remembered his incident at Yatexa Plaza and continued his ascent. His stone lungs feeling heavy. He then realised that he had the cigarillo still hanging from his lip.

What the hell!

This wasn't Brentish.

He made his way along the corridor and noticed the swaying old tramp zig- zagging toward him, bouncing into the occasional wall and fumbling with his fly. A bottle of miaz held in his grubby black hands. The old tramp smiled and tried to give the Krazzi a kiss but Brick nudged him aside, the sound of the tracer going berserk in his pocket.

'Ere, tat wernt vi nice,' remarked the drunken old fool in his best Caneche.

'Out the fuckin' way gramps. Watch business.'

'Op yurs,' replied the tramp and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his ancient coat.

Brick pulled Brenda from his holster and waved it at the old man. 'Fuck off you old prick or I'll drop you so hard you'll be shittin' lead till New Fold.'

The old man stared in wide-eyed amazement at the Krazzi detective, his eyes a majestic blue, the cigarillo still hanging from his lip as if the damn thing lived there.

'Ha rud.'

The old man baled through the doors, scared for his life.

Brick held Brenda in his hand, hearing the ramshackle flight of the tramp cart- wheeling down the steps. He sighed deeply and followed the beep of the tracer. Just down the hall; eight metres. It's where the tracer had situated itself for the last twenty minutes. No movement. No movement.

He cocked Brenda and steadily made his way down the beige corridor. The tracer going berserk in his coat pocket. He changed it to vibrate. An old woman leaned out of her doorway and saw the Krazzi detective tip-toeing up the corridor. Shocked, she put her hand to her mouth and slammed the door. The sound echoing throughout the whole motel. Brick sighed, deeply. Silly bitch.

The tracer was going berserk, buzzing like a Grendal-Wasp nest. Brick approached room 42 and held Brenda in a firm grasp. The door was ajar, the only thing spilling out was darkness and a faint aroma of bramble weed. Brick tilted the door open with the barrel of Brenda, steadily shoved it aside amongst a creak that would wake the dead.

Great. Just great.

The room was pitch. Brick flipped a switch on Brenda and a beam of light, produced by a secondary barrel probed the room, turning and rotating; scanning for organic material and movement.

Brick took a drag on his cigarillo, taking one step into the room, the smoke swirling into the unseen limits of the room. It was then Brick saw the still hand, laying effortlessly along the floor, the rest of the body - if there was a body - hidden by the garish décor of the kitchen counter.

The Krazzi left the door open and raced over to the still body. He knew who it was. Switching on the kitchen light, which was about as affective as a burning candle, he holstered Brenda and turned the still body of Bliss over. She'd been struck at the base of the skull - apparently - her breathing was steady but she would be out for a couple of hours, maybe more.

'Should have stayed at home, Bliss.'

Hey boys and gals. Thank you for your continued support. Please, feel free to vote and comment. I don't bite. These boys mean a great deal to me so please, give them some of your time. Thanking you all you lovely people.