Sarah Smith had joined the Time Police just over seven years ago. Jane was slightly surprised to see she came highly recommended from the civilian police. So highly recommended, in fact, that it was a surprise they’d been able to bring themselves to part with her. Interestingly, since joining the Time Police she’d had very little front-line experience. After her gruntwork she’d started in Records and risen fairly quickly to become assistant to the Head of Records. From there, she’d applied for and got the post of Assistant Deputy Head of Admin. A post, Jane suspected, that wasn’t anything like as grand as its title. From there she’d moved to Major Callen’s department – Recruitment and Training, where she’d become PA to the Deputy Head of Training and finally, PA to Major Callen himself, which was where she’d been until last week. She was the equivalent of Charlie Farenden but, Jane was willing to bet, not nearly as well respected and nowhere near as good at her job.

And that was it. Unlike nearly everyone else in the Time Police, she’d never applied to become a Hunter. Apart from her own gruntwork, she’d never been part of a team or got her boots on the ground, as far as Jane could see. And here she was today, heading up a team of trainees. It just didn’t make sense.

She shut down her scratchpad and spent an hour of her unexpected day off in her room, tidying and cleaning. She loved her room. Time Police accommodation was not luxurious, even for senior officers, but Jane still loved it. Her very own space. A room where she could close the door on the world and be alone.

Yes, it was very basic, containing only a bed with a small desk-cum-dressing table at the foot, and a window with an uninspiring view, but that was OK because she rarely had time to look out of it anyway. The opposite wall held a built-in wardrobe, some shelves for a few personal possessions and her books. Time Police wages are not overgenerous but for Jane there was always enough for books.

Her shelf contained a few books on art and history; the big, colourful book of Renaissance prints she loved to leaf through in the evenings; a couple of thrillers; an old copy of Jane Eyre found in an equally old bookshop; and right on the end, a really battered guidebook to London because she was sure, one day, she would have the time to explore.

Occasionally she would wonder what her grandmother had done with the books she had left behind. Sold or burned them, probably. One or two of them had been school prizes – old friends who had shared her lonely life. She felt a pang of regret at abandoning them to their fate.