Tom walked along St Thomas Street from London Bridge station in the shadow of the thousand-foot-tall Shard tower, the bright morning sun reflecting off its brilliant, polished glass. He approached Becket House, a long queue full of so many different races and nationalities already snaking out of the door, all of them waiting to sign-on or for appointments to learn their fate. Frustration and desperation hung palpably over the line, hopes and dreams hanging in the balance. A few stared sullenly at him as he walked straight past them to the main entrance, where he showed his pass to the security guard on duty, who ushered him through and into a lift which ascended to the top of the drab, grey building.

He was shown to a secure office at the end of the corridor, inside of which was Neil Wilkinson with two colleagues.

Neil jumped to his feet, a bundle of energy as usual. ‘Tom, this is Assistant Director Pete De-Glanville, who runs the North Area Crime Team, and this is HM Inspector Jean MacDonald, Senior Investigator on the job we’re hoping you can help on.’ Handshakes were proffered and accepted all round.

‘Perhaps Jean can give you a little of the background, and we can go from there.’

Jean clicked a remote control, turning as a PowerPoint presentation sprang to life on a screen in front of them.

She was of slender build, with collar-length dark hair and a subtle air of confidence about her. She gave the impression of knowing her stuff, thought Tom: probably an ex-Customs investigator. When Customs and Immigration had merged into the UK Borders Agency a few years back, a lot of good investigators got spread all over the place into all sorts of roles. Tom had worked with a few ‘Cuzzies’ in the past and found them to be a mixed bag. They were red-hot with phone intercepts, though, and he wondered if one was being used on this job. He wouldn’t ask as he knew he wouldn’t be told. When the Government wrote the law on intercepts, they put strict secrecy rules in place; you weren’t allowed to ask, and no one was allowed to tell. Everyone knew the score, however, and you could normally tell when a line was on: intelligence of that quality doesn’t just come from thin air. When there was an informant about then you knew about it; but when a line was being used, all you would get told was something like, ‘Reliable intelligence suggests that Mr X is on his way now to pick up a great big bag of drugs.’ It didn’t take a genius to work it out. It often led to a bit of dancing around the issue at court, though, when defence barristers suspected the truth. They weren’t allowed to ask, and it couldn’t be used as evidence in any case: it could sometimes be quite amusing.