She reminded herself that her tardiness wasn’t the kid’s fault.

After the meeting, Chris had drifted reluctantly after Frank, fulfilling his default role to shadow the more experienced DI. Except that Frank’s appearance in Hawkins’ office ten minutes later, with a list of gripes that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a union strike manifesto, convinced Hawkins that forcing the two of them together would only hinder the investigation. Hence the young trainee’s presence in her passenger seat.

They squeezed through when the lights changed again, but their progress arrested once more as she drew up behind the same Peugeot, checking their estimated time of arrival.

Bollocks.

Half an hour had always been an optimistic estimate for travel time from Hendon to here, especially just before the carnage of an evening commute was about to descend. But the man they were due to meet said he needed to leave by four thirty.

Hopefully he’d wait.

Distraction came in the form of a large black Maserati that bolted from its parking space, rear tyres emitting brief bursts of smoke, into the minor gap she had left between herself and the car in front.

‘Hey.’ Hawkins sounded the horn as its brake lights flared, even more annoyed by the driver’s reaction: a hand raised between the front seats in a thank you gesture that radiated sarcasm.

She rolled to within millimetres of his bumper and returned the cynical wave, half willing him to get out and do something she could arrest him for. But the moment stretched without incident, and the red mist began to dissipate.

Hawkins allowed the space between them to open up as everyone crept forwards another few feet, forcing her attention on to their surroundings. Harley Street stretched away to the south, an arrow-straight tunnel of stunning Georgian architecture, ornate stucco work, rectangular sash windows and parapets giving the impression of flat roofs. Glittering silver balls hung above them like frozen fireworks.

Luxury cars lined equally valuable parking spaces on both sides, no doubt having ferried their manicured owners to appointments with the mixture of premier artists and medical practitioners who occupied one of the capital’s most famous avenues.

Including the surgeon who had removed the scars from Hawkins’ torso less than six months ago.

The results of her treatment had been so successful that the physical marks left by eleven deep knife wounds were now almost invisible to the naked eye. Even the intermittent but piercing twinges she’d experienced in the wounds had become less frequent as they healed.

It was just a shame that psychological consequences weren’t so easily erased.

While the bloodstains had come off her kitchen floor, the nightmares, albeit less frequent now, still woke her in a cold sweat at least twice a week.