The police had made it clear to him that they wanted a clean and quick end to all of this so the Beacon Estate could go back to normal. By normal, Jackson assumed they meant quiet. No one was looking to improve or even save the estate; the powers-that-be just wanted them to get back into their box, and do it discreetly. Jackson surmised that for this to happen, the easiest thing would be for the same person to be guilty of both crimes, and he was sure that the evidence in the bag would prove just that. People could then go back to believing that the police were doing their job in keeping respectable citizens safe, the status quo would be restored, and the public could be told that the Beacon Estate was calm once more. There was one problem: Sharon Bradley. Jackson found himself admiring her.

A flutter settled under his ribcage. It was a familiar feeling, but one that he hadn’t felt in recent years. It was the sensation of ambition. Occasionally Jackson believed that he could do something different; something that wasn’t dictated by his background. Maybe a university degree, or a decent job. But then, after a minute or so, the ripple of excitement would dissipate, and he’d move on, accepting his lot and status. It was the same for everyone on the estate: the expectation to be mediocre.

The cops this afternoon had emphasised the point. He had zero prospects; in other words, he was worthless. He had no future, no family, no meaningful relationships and no potential. That was what they always told him when they wanted something. But this situation was different. It occurred to him that the effort with which the two coppers had tried to coerce him was unusual. They were desperate.

But was he? He’d known of informers who’d made mistakes in the past and ended up with a knife in their guts up to their ribcage. Or who’d disappeared. He had a difficult choice to make. His actions could save the establishment and they could all go back to the unexceptional mainstream. Thing was, could he accept the injustice?