“Fair enough. I’ll make sure no one’s suddenly developed whipcash. Is my car all right where it is?”

“It’s fine. We’ll be clearing up for a while yet.”

The Range Rover’s tinted glass concealed its occupants until the driver lowered his window. He gave Jem a thin smile, obviously tolerating the fuss under duress and keen to be on his way. The woman beside him continued to speak into her mobile and didn’t deign to acknowledge Jem was there. With a new headlight and a dab of superglue on the vanity plate, no one would suspect their car had been in a collision.

“Hello, sir,” she said. “My name’s Jem, and I’m with the ambulance service. The police officer said no one in your car is injured. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” He tapped an impatient beat on the handbrake, striking a chunky gold ring against the lever. “Did the officer say when we might be able to get going?” The civility of his tone couldn’t disguise his broad Mancunian accent, and angry streaks of red coloured the black tribal tattoo on his neck when Jem shook her head.

“Sorry, no, he didn’t. I’m sure it won’t be long, though.” She moved closer until she could see the back seat passengers: a lad and a girl in their mid-teens. “Hey,” she said, making eye contact with the lad as the girl played on an iPhone with a bejewelled case. “Are either of you hurt?”

“Naw,” the lad said. “I thought he’d hit a speed bump.”

The girl sniggered and twirled the stud in her nose. “You’re such a dick,” she told the lad.

Soaked through and also feeling narky, Jem ripped off her nitrile gloves and shoved them into her pocket. “Right, then. I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Hey, it’s easy money,” the traffic officer said, when she told him she was clearing. “We get paid for this shit regardless.”

It was true, and she dealt with enough bad jobs to appreciate those that turned out to be false alarms. She hung her jacket over the RRV’s passenger seat and started the engine. Rosie had sent a WhatsApp while Jem had been on scene, a stock photo of a Twix next to a cup of coffee, with the caption, Do you have time for a tutorial?

Hold that thought, Jem replied. I’ll let you know where I am in a couple of hours.

* * *

Rosie tore onto the street, her blues and siren still blaring, the Clayton van less than thirty yards behind her and making just as much noise. An elderly man grabbed his poodle, cradling it to his chest as if the vehicles might snatch it away, while a postie stamped out his fag and crossed himself. Rosie counted the numbers down, screaming to a halt in front of thirty-nine, her seat belt already off and her Taser unbuckled.