Sat alone at one of the tables was an old friend of his, Stan Munro. Stan was a legendary ex-Marine Sergeant Major and Falklands Conflict veteran, who now worked as the Kilburn CID Office Manager. He managed the vehicle fleet, answered the phones, took messages, and generally made sure everything ran smoothly. He was a nice guy in his sixties with a bald head and long bushy beard, a man who didn’t take his job too seriously but did it very well. Despite his low-status job and unusual appearance, it was always wise to keep Stan on your side.

For reasons no one really knew, Stan wielded significant power at the station, being one of the few people who could walk into the Borough Commander’s office without knocking and speak freely. It was, though, a testament to Stan’s character that he never misused this power, simply seeking to make sure that any injustices were resolved without the need for management intervention. He was also responsible for issuing various enquiries and investigations, and anyone foolish enough to piss Stan off would find themselves on the receiving end of a paperwork body-blow within minutes. He had an enormous presence, and some younger officers would cower in his formidable presence. Perhaps because of this, few cops took the time to speak to Stan, not knowing that he was also a Military Cross recipient, following some serious bravery on Mount Two Sisters during the Falklands Conflict.

Since joining, Tom often passed the time of day and shared a tea—‘a wet’—with Stan, talking about their Bootneck days. They had soon discovered that Stan knew his foster father well, having served in the South Atlantic together, and this had deepened the bond between them.

‘All right, Royal,’ said Tom, using the universal greeting that all Marines traditionally used when addressing a fellow Green Beret holder.

‘Royal. Where you been, mate? I’ve missed our little sandbag-sitting, lamp-swinging sessions,’ said Stan in that booming, sonorous voice which was once so feared among the tough commandos.

‘Oh, you know, sneaky-beaky stuff.’ He knew Stan wouldn’t press. They shot the breeze for about twenty minutes until they were interrupted by Tom’s operational phone ringing. He didn’t recognise the number but answered it with a ‘Hello?’

A gravelly female Serb-accented voice barked at him. Mira. ‘I need you to help us. You must take a girl to the lawyer’s office later today after they close.’ It was an order, not a request. ‘I give her your number, you meet her later, and take her to office in Ilford. Wait for her, then take her back to me, okay?’

‘Sounds fine. What’s her name?’

‘Jeta. I text you the lawyer’s brother’s number and address of office. Get her there for seven, stay out of the way, and let the lawyer do his thing. She is meeting new husband.’ She rang off without further comment.