Lesley, looking unreasonably fresh, met me in the squalid kitchenette shared by all the residents on my floor. There was paracetamol in one of the cupboards; one thing you can always be certain of in a police section house is that there will always be paracetamol. I took a couple and gulped water from the tap.

‘Mr Headless has a name,’ she said, while I made coffee. ‘William Skirmish, media type, lives up in Highgate.’

‘Are they saying anything else?’

‘Just the usual,’ said Lesley. ‘Senseless killing, blah, blah. Inner-city violence, what is London coming to, blah.’

‘Blah,’ I said.

‘What are you doing up before noon?’ she asked.

‘Got my career progression meeting with Neblett at twelve.’

‘Good luck with that,’ she said.

I knew it was all going pear-shaped when Inspector Neblett called me by my first name.

‘Tell me, Peter,’ he said. ‘Where do you see your career going?’

I shifted in my chair.

‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘I was thinking of CID.’

‘You want to be a detective?’ Neblett was, of course, a career ‘uniform’, and thus regarded plain-clothes police officers in much the same way as civilians regard tax inspectors. You might, if pressed, concede that they were a necessary evil but you wouldn’t actually let your daughter marry one.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why limit yourself to CID?’ he asked. ‘Why not one of the specialist units?’

Because you don’t, not when you’re still on probation, say that you want to be in the Sweeney or a Murder Investigation Team and swan around in a big motor while wearing handmade shoes.

‘I thought I’d start at the beginning and work my way up, sir,’ I said.

‘That’s a very sensible attitude,’ said Neblett.

I suddenly had a horrible thought. What if they were thinking of sending me to Trident? That was the Operational Command Unit charged with tackling gun crime within the black community. Trident was always on the lookout for black officers to do hideously dangerous undercover work, and being mixed race meant that I qualified. It’s not that I don’t think they do a worthwhile job, it’s just that I didn’t think I’d be very good at it. It’s important for a man to know his limitations, and my limitations started at moving to Peckham and hanging around with yardies, postcode wannabes and those weird, skinny white kids who don’t get the irony in Eminem.

‘I don’t like rap music, sir,’ I said.

Neblett nodded slowly. ‘That’s useful to know,’ he said, and I resolved to keep a tighter grip on my mouth.

‘Peter,’ he said, ‘over the last two years I’ve formed a very positive opinion of your intelligence and your capacity for hard work.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And then there is your science background.’

I have three C-grade A levels in Maths, Physics and Chemistry. This is only considered a science background outside of the scientific community. It certainly wasn’t enough to get me the university place I wanted.