We enter the police station car park and I pull into my space. The state-of-the-art glass structure looms in front of me, all straight lines, exposed metal work and open, airy spaces. I spot my office on the far end of the third floor and hesitate as I reach for the door handle.

‘You OK?’ asks Liam.

I nod. ‘I will be, it just feels like a big deal, you know?’

He gives my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’ll head in and get the room set up for briefing, take your time.’

My eyes fill with tears; this isn’t like me.

‘Don’t go fucking soft on me,’ he adds, smiling, and I can’t help but laugh as he exits the car and walks towards the sliding doors into the station. I give myself a pep talk, take a few calming breaths and follow suit.

As I enter through the doors, a sense of familiarity washes over me. The front desk is currently being manned by Stuart, a middle-aged man with greying hair and a growing gut. He gives me a warm smile which I reciprocate.

I walk over to the wall of lifts and press the button, which lights up and immediately opens the lift on the far left. I check myself in the mirror which is steeped in unflattering light, wiping away some mascara that has stained the area under my eyes as I rise to the third floor.

When the doors re-open, I leave the lift and walk across the newly carpeted floor. My appearance back at work is met with a solid wall of indifference, which I am very pleased about. The tapping of fingers on computer keyboards and ringing telephones are the sounds of my welcome back.

I pass between the partitioned desks to my office on the other side of the room. Opening the door, I spend a moment taking it all in. It’s almost exactly as I’d left it. The case board has been cleared, ready for new photographs and evidence to morbidly decorate it. I’ve had a new computer installed too.

I sit down on the padded swivel chair and breathe a sigh of relief, searching for the button to turn the computer on, eventually finding it on the back of the console. The computer hums to life and I set about making the briefing PowerPoint.

A short while later, there’s a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I call.

Detective Thomas Calder opens the door and sits down. He’s changed in the time I’ve been away. The first thing I notice is his moustache; thick and curled at the end which wouldn’t look out of place on Shoreditch High Street. His hair has changed too, longer on top and shaved on the sides. His clothes, as always, are well put together; matching shirt and tie. Slim fit suit. He sets a coffee down on my desk and slides it in my direction.

‘Good to see you E. No milk, just how you like it.’