“Fine.” She stood and opened the door, letting in a blast of diesel fumes that still smelled better than his office. “I’m going to tell control I’m clear.”

She walked out without waiting for permission and sank into a crew room chair between Bob and Dougie, who were sitting with their feet up, watching Homes Under the Hammer.

Dougie muted the television. “You all right, flower?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Bob looked sceptical but didn’t comment. He collected their mugs and went into the kitchen. Seconds later, she heard water pouring and the creak of the toaster’s lever.

Dougie picked a crumb out of his beard. “We saw Spence at West Penn. He reckons Baxter’s after a transfer to this group.”

“Terrific. We’re already firm friends.” Too stressed to dwell on the possibility, she changed the subject. “How was Mary Kirkholt?”

Bob returned in time to catch the tail end of her question. He arranged brews and toast on a low table and helped himself before answering. “She was fine, very chirpy, and absolutely not stuck on the loo. KitKats and Jammie Dodgers today, and we’re now off the road until someone comes out to fix our side door, so it’s all coming up roses.”

“I should call clear.” Jem unclipped her radio, but Dougie put his hand on hers.

“Have five minutes. If they really need you, they know where you are.”

She relented and picked up her mug, shocked when her hand trembled hard enough to slosh tea over its rim. She hadn’t realised how badly Baxter had unsettled her. “Okay, five minutes.”

Bob passed her the toast. “Good girl. Oh, by the way, we asked our dispatcher to follow up on that bloke from this morning. Ian with the aneurysm.”

She nodded, braced for the worst. “And?”

“Stable and heading to High Dependency, and his children are sitting with his missus.”

Jem dropped her toast onto her plate. “Get out. Really?”

“Yep, really. Apparently, his wife wanted all our names for a thank-you card.” He cackled with his mouth full. “Tell Baxter to put that in his pipe and smoke it.”

Chapter Eleven

The lad emptied a packet of prawn cocktail crisps into his mouth, wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans, and opened a Mars Bar. Despite his penchant for snacks, he was tall and wiry, and his low-riding jeans revealed a pair of once-white Calvin Kleins. Acne bloomed pink on his nose and chin, and although his clothes were all label brands, they didn’t appear to have been washed this side of Christmas.

“Four, maybe five weeks,” he said through a mouthful of chocolate, turning to his mate for confirmation, but the other lad shrugged and continued to type on his phone. “What we in now?”