Tom walked past the Wilsons Sheet Metal sign at the entrance to the converted warehouse, the sole reminder of the building’s former life, and let himself into the ground-floor apartment. The sheet metal door clanged shut with a satisfying solidity as he keyed the code into the keypad. The alarm system was much more sophisticated than any of his neighbours’ and that, combined with the industrial door and barred windows, formed his very own Fort Knox: his sanctuary from all the London stink and crime.

He was thankful for owning such a nice place: peaceful yet convenient, and close to all the amenities that Camden was known for. The legacy left by his Mama had been put to good use; Cameron was pretty shrewd and had seen the London property price rises ahead of everyone else.

The centrepiece of the big, open-plan apartment was a makeshift gym: a pull-up bar hung above a stretching zone, a punch bag, and a weights bench with a full selection of dumbbells. In pride of place on the wall was a silk escape map of a desolate part of Iraq, framed above the TV.

He’d bought the place when he was living with Bev in the even more North London area of Colindale but, as they’d split up while it was still being converted, he’d tweaked the plans to make it the ultimate bachelor pad. He sometimes missed Bev but, he had to admit, not a great deal: she’d wanted more that he’d felt able to give. He certainly didn’t miss the constant arguments about how difficult he was to live with ever since he’d joined the CID. He’d left the Forces so they could give the relationship a proper go, but he had just replaced the constant deployments chasing dangerous terrorists with ridiculous hours chasing criminals. Bev had given him an ultimatum and, as much as he had thought he loved her, it wasn’t a hard decision. He had chosen the job.

He went over to the battered oak sideboard and selected a bottle from a row of thirty alphabetised bottles of whisky. His time in Scotland and the influence of his foster father had given him an appreciation of fine, malt whiskies: the perfect tool to help put the world to rights.

He poured a good measure of a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin into a crystal glass and deeply inhaled the evocative, peaty aroma, instantly transporting him back to the Highlands. He added a couple of chilled, granite whisky stones and sat on the large corner sofa, nestling into the rich leather.