‘No,’ she says with a firm edge to her voice.

‘Safa, you know I could do it without your consent.’

‘You won’t,’ she replies bluntly. ‘You can’t.’

He sags down into the seat, shaking his head as she gently places the tablet down on his desk. ‘Such a nasty, vile prick. Go on the gate . . .’

‘Sarge, we’ve been through this.’

‘Sick? Go sick for a few weeks.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘You look sick,’ the sergeant says hopefully.

‘Sarge,’ she says softly. ‘I appreciate it but . . . I won’t go sick and I can’t do the gate or the front door. Three weeks. I can do three weeks.’

He sighs and holds her gaze. ‘Okay, but if it gets worse then tell me.’

‘With respect,’ Safa says, ‘I won’t. I’d better get upstairs.’

‘Yeah. I’ll come up as much as I can. Go on.’

Closing the door behind her, she walks down the main corridor and pauses at the full-length mirror by the security door. Black trousers pressed and clean. Boots shiny. Hair scraped back into a tight bun. White shirt and black tie. The pistol on her belt is checked. She turns her radio on before popping the earpiece into her ear with a wishful glance at her ballistic vest hanging from the hook. The officers on the main gate and front door wear their vests but those posted inside are not allowed as it is deemed too aggressive to visiting dignitaries and heads of state.

The vest would have hidden her shape and worked to take away the appearance of femininity. It might have helped, but then the vest would never hide her eyes and face.

Three weeks. I can do three weeks. Twenty-one days, and with days off that makes it fourteen days. Seven of those fourteen days are eight-hour shifts and the other seven are nine-hour shifts, so that makes one hundred and nineteen hours. God, that sounds even worse when you think of it like that. Fourteen days is the one to keep in mind. Just get through it and move on.

Steeling herself, she steps out from the police offices and into the main corridor with her head held high. She takes the service stairs to the top floor and down the corridor to take over from the day-turn officer.

‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘Sergeant wanted to see me.’

‘It’s fine. You okay?’

‘Yeah, great. Got the heads-up,’ she says quietly.

‘Yeah?’ the day-turn officer asks as he hands over the duty tablet. ‘You going then?’

She nods quickly, swiping the screen to sign in on the device. ‘Three weeks, maybe a month.’

‘Wow,’ Mark whispers. ‘Diplomatic to royalty, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Much going on?’

‘Nope, he’s due back in an hour.’

‘An hour? Is he out tonight?’

‘Not heard anything,’ Mark says. ‘He stays in on Fridays, doesn’t he?’

‘Normally,’ she replies, keeping her tone carefully neutral.