“Oh, all right. It seems a bit of a waste, though. Half of CID is desperate to get their pictures in the paper and here you are with stories coming out of your ears and you don’t want them. Really, we should make the most of it. Put you on posters. DS Fowler, the Face of the Department.”

There was a snort from the door. It was Detective Inspector Davis, wearing his usual expression of aggressive disgust. “You and your lady friend admiring your press cuttings, Fowler?”

“Oh, that was just me, Inspector,” Challice said with the bright, friendly smile she usually adopted with Davis. “Was there something, sir?”

He didn’t trouble to reply to her. “DDI wants a word, Fowler. Now will do.”

Divisional Detective Inspector Colthorne was a tall, imposing man in his forties, distinguished if not handsome, with a shrewd air that suggested a stockbroker before he got complacent. He’d been promoted from Detective Inspector in C Division (Soho) a few years ago, and was now the senior officer of G Division (Finsbury, Islington, King’s Cross, and Clerkenwell). He had an authoritative rule but an easy manner with it, and was generally considered a good chief, a laugh when he wanted to be, though possessed of a wicked temper if you were fool enough to cross him.

Aaron didn’t quite share the general admiration. He’d been a constable under Mr. Colthorne in Soho before they both moved to King’s Cross, and never managed to get on with the man. That, he had to admit, was down to envy. He wasn’t easy or genial himself, didn’t have the knack of charm or banter, and probably could never have been popular anyway since he came with far too much baggage attached. Gossip about his father and his extended family always went before him, and he was wearily accustomed to the simultaneous necessity and impossibility of proving himself. Yes, my father was Terry Fowler, the union man. Yes, my mother’s family is upper-class as it comes. But I’m still a copper.

“Well, Fowler,” Colthorne said. “Congratulations. Excellent result yesterday. Good to get Melkin off the streets.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“A disgrace about that brief’s insinuations, though. This tactic of abusing an honest policeman and impugning his character ought to be severely punished by the Bench.”

The DDI had been the object of a similar accusation during the war years, Aaron vaguely recalled; clearly the experience had left scars. Aaron was grateful for the sympathy now. “Thank you, sir,” he repeated. “It was rather unpleasant. Of course the defence has to do what he can for his client, but to be accused of corruption or collusion with criminals—it strikes at the heart of why we do the job.”

“And, I’m sorry to say, that sort of slander follows a man around for a long time. Mud sticks.”