But she wasn’t resisting the idea. Later, with Roz snoring softly and himself still wide awake, wired by the fact he had killed a man and got away with it, he pondered. Wondering if he was going to have nightmares about the moment he’d pulled the trigger. Wondering if the path he was taking was worth the risk of losing the woman lying next to him. Wondering if the Teletubbies had found his card yet.

3

Mickey was out of bed before dawn. Awake before the alarm, from long habit of 05.00 wake-ups for early turn. Looked in the mirror. His face not too haggard, for a man who’d lain awake half the night. And not looking bad for his early forties either. No more than a trace of grey in the hair. Pretty much wrinkle-free.

His mates were already starting to use the fact to wind him up. Yakking on about the supposed predilections of the women who were guarded by private security. The lady of the house always likes a nice fresh-faced bodyguard, Mickey. They’ll take you for a cherry boy, Mickey. Just wait until you’re out in the private sector, Mickey. He knew they were jealous that he’d started young. That he’d have his thirty in before he was clapped out. And that they all fantasised about getting a bit of posh Russian with her legs open.

Whereas Mickey had actually listened to his former Protection Command colleagues who’d made that change. And knew, thereby, that it didn’t work like that. Security was there to be ignored. Nothing more, nothing less. Not unless you looked like Chris Hemsworth on a very good day, perhaps. And even then you weren’t likely to be troubling the scorers on that particular strip.

‘Are you going to admire yourself in the mirror all day?’

Roz, leaning on the bathroom doorframe. Her face a combination of pillow creases and sardonic grin.

‘I was just wondering when the grey hairs are going to start showing.’

She gave him that pitying look she did so well. Practice, he guessed. Roz’s hairdresser best friend did her roots twice a month. Making his relative lack of grey something of a provocation.

‘They’ll come soon enough. Then we’ll see if you reach for the dye bottle.’

‘Not me.’ He wrapped her up in a kiss, tasting of spearmint. ‘I’m growing old gracefully.’

‘You’d fucking better, smart-arse. No younger model for you.’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘And you can cut that out too. Makes me sound like the Queen.’

He disengaged from her embrace and kissed her on the cheek. Headed downstairs. Wallet, warrant card, keys, Belstaff. A ten-minute walk to the station in the early morning gloom, the sun yet to make an appearance. Resisting the urge to whistle. Just in case Jason Felgate’s hard-on for him had convinced the Murder Squad to get their long lenses and parabolic mikes out.