And, as bidden, sloped off to get them a coffee. Both of them regarding the woman on screen as “Jasmine” rather than “Assistant Commissioner”. Mainly because, in a show of sisterhood, that was what she had insisted on being called. While she had shown them around Number 37. Not that the Clarion was to name her, or even hint at her participation, she’d instructed them. Telling Tamara that she wasn’t doing it for the publicity, but for all the other victims. A statement which Tamara had met with a carefully composed expression of approval. Inwardly wondering whether the woman’s rat-trap fierce intellect really had that sort of room for sentiment. A thought she’d instantly dismissed as unworthy, under the circumstances.

And yet there was Jasmine, on screen and talking animatedly. Something Tamara strongly suspected was against some fairly well-defined police service regulations. She looked around, calculating.

The news desks were sparsely populated. Part time of day, part continued social isolation by the older members of the team. Those few people present heads down and focused. Reassured of relative privacy, she thought hard for a moment. Knowing that what she was about to do could get her fired. Blackballed from the entire news media industry when it inevitably got around. As other people’s bad news always does. No doubt about it, she was just about to risk tossing her newly heroic status down the shitter of principle. A line from Kipling that her father had frequently quoted at her sprang to mind. Making her smile, as she reached into her camera bag, muttering to herself.

‘Treat those two imposters the same, eh Dad? I’ll give it a try.’

32

It was Roz who spotted the headline. The two of them were making the most of a quiet weekend. Getting back in touch with each other after all Mickey’s overtime of the previous weeks.

Saturday had been spent tidying up the house’s small garden. Followed by a daring couple of hours in the only cinema left open for miles. A romcom, of course. And then dinner at Roz’s favourite restaurant. An eye-wateringly expensive meal. The smirking sommelier having produced a bottle of something north of fifty quid a bottle and pronounced it to be ‘madam’s favourite, from your last visit’. The smug bastard then having to be rewarded both with showers of praise and a hefty tip for remembering to get Mickey’s wallet opened once again.

Roz had guzzled a good two-thirds of the bottle. Consumption justified on the grounds that Mickey would be needing both his wits about him and a sharp pencil when they got home. A prediction which, partially thanks to the wine’s lubricating effect, had proved well-founded.