Ridley was the only man in the world who texted in full sentences. Jack sat back in his chair and, wiping the stubborn, buttery crumbs from round his mouth with the back of his hand, looked around the canteen. He could hear snippets of conversations as officers talked about the cases they were on, the arrests they’d just made, the raids they were about to make. The amount of adrenaline and testosterone flying around Jack was dizzying—but none of it was his. He knew that his team would be at their desks, focused and driven to find the dirty bastard who was watching other people’s kids sleep. So why was he late and sitting by himself in the canteen? The truth was that, no matter how friendly and welcoming Ridley’s team was, Jack still kept them at arm’s length.

Jack had gone from being a normal-sized fish in a normal-sized pond, to being a very small fish in the biggest pond in the UK—the Metropolitan Police Service. And he felt out of his depth. After fourteen months of working at the Met, he still hadn’t found his calling, his passion, his heart in London and, as the months ticked by, he honestly feared that he never would.

When Jack finally walked into the squad room, he froze in the doorway. Shit! Ridley was not in meetings all morning and Jack being a little bit late was a very big deal.

Ridley didn’t acknowledge Jack’s presence, and no one in the team dared look away from him while he was talking. This was an impromptu briefing, in response to a phone call from DI Martin Prescott over in Aylesbury.

“We’ve just been handed a house fire, in which the charred remains of an unknown person have been discovered, together with approximately two million pounds in old money—also burnt. This is being treated as murder, arson and robbery. It’s come to us because it’s looking like it could be connected to one of our old cases from ’95—the biggest train robbery this country has ever seen. As I’m sure you remember, no one was ever arrested and thirty million plus vanished without a trace. We’re heading to Aylesbury this afternoon, after we’ve been to Donal Sweeney’s.”

Then, and only then, did Ridley look at Jack. His dark eyes were a frightening combination of anger and disappointment.

“You’re with me,” he said, then headed into his office and slammed the door shut.

The team shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, wondering what the hell Jack thought he was playing at by being so late. As Jack bowed his head in disgrace and wondered how this day could possibly get any worse, he spotted a blob of honey sliding down the front of his trouser leg.

Chapter 2

DCI Simon Ridley was organizing files in his glass-fronted office. He was a slender, almost sinewy 50-something man who did everything standing up: reading, eating, phoning. He could walk a couple of miles up and down the room in a single meeting.