Dougie had followed him in, toting the track chair she’d advised them to bring. Careful not to jolt Ian, they extricated him as she packed her kit away. She met Dougie at the back of the ambulance and gave him Ian’s phone.

“Will you get someone to call his son and daughter? Someone who’s not his wife, that is.”

“Will do.” Dougie paused at the driver’s door, keys readied. “There’s an AP waiting on station for you. Looks about twelve, stupid moustache?”

“Great.” She slung her bag into the RRV. “Let me know how you get on with Ian, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He started the engine and then wound his window down. “Jem?”

“Yeah?”

He blew her a kiss. “Your hair looks bloody marvellous, flower.”

* * *

Expecting a summons back to station, Jem put her “clear” through and rummaged around for her banana as she waited for the verdict. Breakfast had been a hurried bowl of cereal at five thirty, and the last thing she wanted was a rumbling belly interrupting her debrief. She was chewing her first bite when the radio buzzed.

“Hey, Jem,” Ryan said. “There’s a Darren Baxter waiting at Darnton for you, if you can make your way—actually, scratch that: choking baby coming through.”

“Bloody hell,” she said, off the air. Then, “Anyone else running?”

“Crofton, but they’re eighteen out, and you’re four.”

Cursing the satnav for buggering about, she lobbed her banana onto the passenger seat and turned off the side road, hitting her sirens at the first set of traffic lights. The baby had probably just coughed on a feed, scaring its parents half to death, but Jem of all people couldn’t afford to be complacent, so she put her foot down, dodging early-morning commuters still bleary-eyed and caffeine deprived, and pissing off a bus driver who was disinclined to pull in for her. The RRVs were nippy little beasts, though, and a straight run down the main road allowed her to beat her ETA by forty seconds. The front door of the address was wide open, often an indicator of a bad job, but the wail of a newborn audible above the Teletubbies theme tune suggested the crisis had passed. Occluded airways didn’t allow for shrieking.

“Hello? Ambulance.” She gave a perfunctory knock and walked into the living room, where a toddler wearing only a nappy sat eating Coco Pops on the sofa. The toddler grinned and waved her spoon, splattering the filthy fake leather with chocolate milk.

“Hey, sweetie. Where’s your mum?” Jem said. Beyond a connecting door, the cries had softened to a series of hiccupping sobs. She pushed the door open. “Ambulance. Are you in here?”