Jem entered the garage code and lined the ambulance up to reverse park. The driving aspect of the job had been her Achilles’ heel when she first joined the service. As a twenty-year-old nervous newbie who’d never driven anything bigger than a Micra, she’d clipped countless wing mirrors, cracked several lights, and suffered the indignity of having “L” and “R” penned on her hands to ensure she could follow the satnav without watching its screen. Now, twelve years later, she eased the Mercedes Sprinter into a bay designed for much smaller vehicles, the wing mirrors never in jeopardy and the rear lights well clear of the garage wall. With ninety minutes left on her shift, she emptied the clinical waste bin, changed the defib battery, and wiped down the saloon surfaces. She briefly considered washing the exterior, but the garage was cold, a wet Manchester winter having given way to an even wetter spring, and she stuck her hands beneath her armpits as she headed for the kitchen instead, craving tea and toast and a catnap.

A cackle of laughter from the crew room slowed her walk to a tiptoe. She’d parked in the farthest bay along and hadn’t spotted the seven o’clock shift vehicle, but its crew were obviously on station. She knew that Dougie and Bob, who usually ran the line, had booked the nights off, and she cursed herself for not checking who’d been put on their shifts. Sometimes forewarned was forearmed. Nearing the door, she recognised the voices and hugged herself a little harder.

“Don’t be mard,” she told herself, quelling the impulse to hide in her ambulance until the crew got a job. If they were on their rest break, she could be standing toast-less in the draughty garage for another twenty minutes. It was the toast-less part, not the chill, that brought her to a decision, and she shoved the door open. Her appearance stopped the conversation dead, both the young women in the room turning to stare at her as she walked in.

“Hey,” she said, keeping her tone light so they wouldn’t suspect she might bolt at the slightest provocation. “Anyone want a brew?”

Caitlin—six foot something, with tattooed eyebrows and teeth bleached to dazzling whiteness—hid a smirk behind her sleeve and nudged her half-empty mug. “Got one, thanks.”

“Amira?”

“No, ta.”