Eddie knew the answer to that one. Both from frequent repetition and practical demonstration.

‘An inexhaustible supply of meat hooks, Joe.’

‘Exactly. Off you go. And send me a copy of that photo. I’ve got some asking around to do.’

5

Mickey got off the train at London Bridge and walked east. Enjoying the opportunity to stretch his legs. Even 109 Lambeth Road, LX to its inmates, as grim as ever, couldn’t lower his mood. LX. Seventies brutalism in concrete and glass. All fur coat and no knickers, the Met. Which meant that Lambeth Road was a million miles from the shiny image of twenty-first-century policing on the other side of the Thames. Home to the Met’s forensics department, the twenty-four-hour emergency response call centre and the special operations control room. The latter having probably seen more ruined careers in its time than White Hart Lane. And Protection Command. Prot to its members.

He carded in through a reluctant turnstile and went upstairs to the canteen. Walked through. Nodding to the inevitable huddles of masons, careerists and other assorted gatherings of the self-interested. Groups of Prot officers sorted by age, service and seniority. Coffee meetings, Prot’s informal management structure. Mickey had heard it described by one participant as Prot’s equivalent of Roman centurions running the legions. While their officers listened to poetry and eyed up the slave boys. Mickey, of course, never got invited to coffee meetings, Prot’s equivalent of a power breakfast. Not anymore, at least. Because Mickey, from stubborn choice, wasn’t any sort of joiner. Respect, for Mickey, was hard-earned. And down to more than who you shared firm handshakes, machine cappuccino and confirmation bias with of a morning.

Passing through into the changing room, he opened his locker. Casuals off, suit and boot up. A nice dark blue Ted Baker two-piece. Nothing fancy in Prot. Whose first commandment was to blend in. White shirt, sober tie, black shoes, polished before he’d gone off duty from his last tour. Blend in but look the part. Have recently cut hair, be clean-shaven and always smell nice. Or at least not offensive. A scruffy-looking protection officer was not the image the Met sought to portray. Not even one looking like Chris Hemsworth.

He checked his look in the mirror for the second time that morning. Acceptable. Pin-coded through the airlocks into the office. Half an acre of open-plan hot desks. Largely deserted in favour of machine coffee and professional machismo. Logged into the system. Waded through a dozen emails, reading them despite the urge to delete. Then checked that his duty allocation hadn’t changed. Knowing it wouldn’t have. Without the right people looking after your assignment, life in Prot could get very monotonous. Although Mickey had come to enjoy both the predictability of his work and the occasional frisson of excitement when he drew something different.