In spite of all that, he’d grown to enjoy living in London. He liked that he was close to work and didn’t have to commute. He actually enjoyed the contrast with his earlier life in Scotland and Bosnia before that. He’d kept a foothold in Scotland with a small bothy he’d bought cheaply years ago that was perched on the side of a Munro in the Cairngorms, and which he loved dearly, spending his precious leave up there shooting and fishing with Cameron.

As he drove, he continued to listen to the Airwave radio he always took home with him. He switched to the Camden channel as he left Brent. He’d been accused on many occasions of being job-pissed: Met vernacular for being a little over-keen. It was probably a fair comment, he conceded to himself. He’d never grown tired of locking up bad guys during his eight years in the Met and couldn’t really understand those that had.

As he drove along West End Lane, he heard the Camden radio channel spark up with a fairly stressed-sounding transmission from an old colleague, Sergeant Dale Rogers, calling for assistance. It seemed that he was having difficulty arresting Tony O’Reilley, who was wanted on a recall-to-prison order. Tom knew O’Reilley well: an absolute monster of a man with a long criminal history almost exclusively for violence. ‘Ten Man Tony’ was his nickname, owing to the fact that ten officers could be needed to nick him if he wasn’t being cooperative. Tom had had dealings with him when in uniform at Camden and later as a Detective Constable and had always managed to get through to him. From the radio chatter, it became clear that no backup was imminent, and he could hear an unusual note of concern in Dale’s voice. Tom picked up the radio.

‘Echo Kilo from DS Novak. I’m close by: show me assisting.’

A minute later, Tom pulled up outside a drab terraced house on a side street just off Haverstock Hill.

A response car was pulled up outside, its blue lights strobing. Tom walked up the path to the door, where he met Dale.

‘Anything I can help with, Dale?’

‘Blimey, Tom, what are you doing here?’ He was a stocky Londoner with a cheerful smile and receding hair. At his side was an impossibly young-looking PC who looked like he was going to faint through fear.

‘This is Steve, my newest probationer,’ said Dale. ‘Ten Man Tony is inside and refusing to come without a tear-up. You know what he’s like. There’s only me and Steve; everyone’s tucked-up at a huge fight in Camden Town.’

Tom smiled. ‘I’ve not seen Tony for ages; want me to have a word?’

‘Be my guest, but he’s in a right fucking mood tonight. He’s probably looking at another year inside, minimum, and I reckon he doesn’t fancy it.’