He strolled over to the row of SEG BMWs. A dozen bikes parked in a precise kerbside formation. Their riders standing around in their usual operational teams. Smoking, those that did. And gossiping, which all coppers did. The oldest of them walked out to greet him, hand held out. Grabbing him by the shoulder and walking him back to his little gang.

Silver-haired now, and a bit more solidly upholstered. But still the same old Kev. One-time beat copper, now king of the Easy Riders. Mickey’s mentor, so to speak, on the streets of North London. Before he’d managed to wangle a transfer into Traffic. And from there to the golden fleece of motorised policing. The Special Escort Group. Within which he had risen to the height of his chosen branch. At least in terms of both skill and respect.

‘Here we are then! This is the Prot skipper I was telling you about! The one who told a certain government minister to get fucked!’

Mickey holding his hands up, protesting his innocence. ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, eh Kev?’

His protests ignored by the SEG boys and girls. Who shook his hand and clapped his shoulder. Generally lauding the mythical deed. To be fair to his former colleague, it wasn’t just gossiping coppers who were building the legend of his exit from Sir Patrick’s protection team. AC Chen, via the Clarion, having presumably played her part as well.

Kev prodded him in the chest with a finger. Grinning fit to bust. ‘Come on, Mickey! You know the truth of it! Just what did you say to that berk? Must have been juicy, you having just pulled his nuts out of the fire and that.’

Mickey shook his head. Firmly denying the assertions. ‘Just because it’s in the papers—’

‘Bollocks! Come on, there’s donuts on this.’

‘I wondered why you called me over. There was me thinking it was for old times’ sake.’

The older man patted his cheek robustly enough for it to sound and feel like nine-tenths of a slap.

‘Spill the beans, sunshine! If you don’t tell me I’ll be forced to set Maisie on you!’

Mickey looked past Kev at the aforementioned Maisie. A tall female officer in her mid-thirties, ginger hair cut short over a face full of freckles. She shook her head at the older man, her expression fond. Nodded to Mickey. Nodding being the new Met handshake.

‘Maisie Blake. And ignore my granddad, Skipper. He does like to embarrass us when we bring him out.’

‘Oi! I resemble that comment. Anyway, the words, Michael. Give ’em up! Or we’ll tie you to a bike and drag you back up the road to London Zoo in front of the Beast. See what POTUS makes of that, eh?’