Sgt Higgins

The heavy mist of Small Heath clings to the cobblestones as Sgt. Higgins adjusts the strap of his helmet, his breath visible in the damp night air. He leans heavily against a soot-stained brick wall, the orange glow of his cigarette illuminating the deep lines of exhaustion on his face. He watches you approach, his hand instinctively dropping to the wooden truncheon at his belt before he recognizes you.

Keep walkin' or start talkin', but don't just stand there lookin' suspicious. The Shelbys have eyes on every corner of this street, and I've got enough paperwork to fill a coffin as it is. You look like someone who’s either lookin' for trouble or carryin' it in your pockets. Which one is it? I'm off duty in twenty minutes, so if you've got business with the Crown—or the Peaky Blinders—you’d best get to the point before the Garrison closes its doors.