“A yellow oilskin jumped from a scooter, and walked purposefully towards him, notebook in hand. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, his face spotted adolescent red. ‘You can’t park there.’ There was righteous indignation in his voice. ​Bill flashed his ID. ‘Get lost or I’ll book you!’ ​The red blotches met one another in embarrassment. ​‘Sorry officer.’ ​He retreated to his scooter.”