Glenn Branson gave an exaggerated sniff and nodded approvingly. ‘It’s making me hungry, boss,’ he said.

‘Everything makes you hungry!’ Grace grinned.

‘Yeah, well, I’m a growing lad!’ he said.

Grace reached across and patted the DI’s belly. ‘You sure are.’

‘Yeah, yeah. It’s actually my six-pack. You’re lucky to share your life with someone who cares about nutrition.’

‘Cleo’s actually made me care about it more, too, but I admit I still love the occasional steak even though we eat mostly veggie or fish.’

‘And bangers? And lamb chops?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘You need to be careful with fish – all that mercury.’

‘Seems to me it doesn’t matter what you eat, vegan, vegetarian, pescatarian or carnivore, you’re going to ingest chemicals that are crap for you,’ Grace said.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it, you’re long gone.’

‘Thanks, buddy.’

They watched in their mirrors as a white van pulled up behind them. On their radio they heard the voice of Inspector Julia Ford. ‘Public Order Team in situ, sir.’

‘Roger that, Public Order Team,’ Grace responded.

The heavies, in their body armour and visors, looking like Stormtroopers, were now here and ready if Niall Paternoster put up any resistance. But Grace doubted he would.

The rest of his team was in place in unmarked vehicles, parked up ahead of them, a short distance beyond the Paternosters’ house.

Adrenaline coursed through him. Raids like this were a big high. This was one of the reasons he’d never gone for further promotion – and he was already at a higher grade than an officer attending an operation like this should strictly be. But he didn’t care. The chance to seize a villain red-handed was the ultimate buzz for him – and always would be.

He radioed Barbara Onoufriou, confirming that she was ready with her Search Team the moment Potting and Exton came out with Niall Paternoster. And confirmed with Chris Gee that he was ready to take command of the property as Crime Scene Manager.

Next he called up Potting on his radio. ‘Ready, Norman?’

‘Roger that, boss! Yes, yes.’

‘Good! Go, go, go!’

A few cars ahead, he saw the tall, lean, suited figure of Jon Exton emerge from the passenger door and stand on the pavement. He was joined moments later by the robust frame of Norman Potting. He watched as they conferred briefly, then walked down the pavement and stopped for a moment outside the front of the Paternosters’ house before striding up the steps to the front door. Potting pressed what looked like the doorbell and followed with a rap on the door.

Grace held his radio up in front of his face, his heart in his mouth. This was always the moment where something could go horribly wrong, such as the occupant opening the door with a gun in his hand. But he didn’t think so, not right now – they’d given Niall Paternoster no reason to expect what was about to happen.

He held his breath.