‘Fine thanks, boss. Up to my neck in petty crime and domestics. Plus for some reason the DCI is holding me personally responsible for the clear-up rate for hate crimes that aren’t actually crimes.’

‘Well I may have something to liven up your working hours, if you’re interested. Can you get to ESB later today?’

‘Well I’m late-turn but I could get to you a bit before then. My DCI is being a bit antsy about manpower.’

‘No bother. Say about twelve? Don’t worry about Simon Taylor, my dad’s bigger than his,’ Wilkinson said with obvious amusement.

Just before 12pm, Tom sat in the canteen on the top floor of the Empress State Building: or ESB, as everyone referred to it. It was a large, twenty-eight-storey tower block near Earls Court, housing many differing Met units and HR functions. It had been gradually absorbing all sorts of staff as the old building at Scotland Yard was run down.

Unusually, it had a very good canteen—or restaurant, as management insisted on calling it—its revolving floor giving fabulous views of the whole of London, making it a popular location for impromptu meetings and pow-wows. Lots of deals, over and under the table, got done on the twenty-eighth floor of the ESB.

Tom sat in one of the booths cradling a coffee as he waited for Neil to arrive. He saw a few familiar faces and exchanged nods that displayed friendliness but didn’t encourage any further approach. Neil Wilkinson only ever dealt in covert conversations.

Tom raised a finger in a subtle greeting as Neil approached his booth, smiling a greeting and clutching a Styrofoam cup. He was a slight, wiry man with neat grey hair and spectacles which seemed too large for his face. As usual, he was immaculately dressed in a well-fitting grey suit, blindingly-white shirt, and sober tie. He offered his hand and Tom shook it warmly.

‘Tom, good to see you. How’s life back in the real world of territorial policing?’

Territorial policing—or TP—was the business of day-to-day law enforcement across London’s thirty-two boroughs.

Tom gave the expected raise of the eyebrows and replied, ‘A little weary, if I’m honest, boss. I miss homicide but, for some reason, promotion seemed a good idea.’

‘Had to be done, fellah, had to be done. Can’t be a DC your whole life. Anyway, down to business. I understand you’re Bosnian by birth?’ Neil Wilkinson was famed for his lack of small talk and tendency to always get straight to the point.

‘Yes, boss. Came over as a refugee as a twelve-year-old and got citizenship at eighteen.’