"That sounds fair to me," he says, and Lancelot begins patting himself down -- reaches for an inside pocket and tugs a pen out and the receipt from his coffee. He flips it over and clicks out the pen, scribbles down what is quickly obvious as a mobile phone number. "You can let me know when suits you," he says, and scribbles an email address under -- work address, obvious, if the @met.police.uk string is anything to go by. "No pressure. It's your bribe, after all, it should be done at your leisure."