Claire Gordon was a local girl well used to Levy’s last-minute need for her services. Over the years she had been paid a large chunk of Levy’s salary in childcare fees.

Which means more money out, Levy thought to herself. Along with everything else.

Levy had fallen pregnant aged twenty-eight, barely two years into her time with the police. It had not been planned and she had not known the father. Levy was far from promiscuous; she could count her sexual partners on one hand. Only once in her life had she slept with a man she could not call her boyfriend. Richard had been the result.

Levy had spent the next eleven years turning that accident into a blessing. And a blessing it had become in every way but one: her finances.

Driven to give Richard as full a life as she could, Levy had pushed hard for promotion. She had achieved it and had used the increased salary to find a home in a good area, close to the best schools. But a detective chief inspector’s salary did not go far in a place like Highgate and so Levy had settled for a small house. It was barely big enough for them both, but was in the best location for her son’s future.

‘Are you driving me to school today, Mum?’

Richard’s question broke the silence that had fallen.

Levy looked at her watch. 8 a.m.

‘Yes, definitely.’ Levy reached out and ruffled her son’s hair as she spoke. Her mind had been drifting back to Phillip Longman. One look at Richard’s face banished those thoughts. ‘But we’ll have to leave a little early, OK?’

‘OK.’

Richard smiled wide. Levy knew how eagerly he looked forward to spending time with her and she was happy that they still had that closeness. She wished she didn’t have to disappoint him so often.

‘I’ll get my satchel packed.’

He was already leaving the table as he spoke, his excitement palpable. Levy watched him go. She finished her coffee as he ran from the room and, knowing he would not be long, she began to pack his lunchbox.

She was almost done when she was interrupted by the sound of her mobile’s ringtone, muffled from within her jacket pocket.

Pulling out the phone, she checked the caller ID: Steven Hale. At 8 a.m. it would not be a personal call.

‘Steve. What’s happened?’

‘Gang murder, Jo. A bad one.’ Out of the office, Hale dispensed with the formalities of title. When they were at work, he would never for a moment forget she was his superior, but after so many years working together, they’d become close. Their line of work did not lend itself to particularly sociable hours and this had left her with very few friends. Hale was one of them.

‘Where?’

‘In Brixton.’

‘Why are they calling us in? Surely this one’s for Trident?’

‘Trident have been called,’ Hale replied. ‘But Scotland Yard want us to work with them on this one.’