"It's a stitch up," he complains, "I never seen those goods in my life before, as God's my witness. Someone's 'aving a lawrf." But no-one laughs, least of all, the dour faced beak on the bench who deems his crime worthy of incarceration. The detective smiles. He was a tailor, before.
This is it, there's no turning back. But his mind rambles, he fidgets, distracted. He thinks of her words, they ring in his ear. He tries to shake it off, concentrate on the task at hand. In the end, he can't pull the pin. Her words echo, you can't commit.