And Mickey, who knew just how the game would be played, kept his face admirably blank. Playing Haskins’ opening delivery with a completely straight bat.

‘Given the lack of any forward briefing? No sir, I do not understand the seriousness of whatever questions you’re planning to ask me.’

The DAC wrote something in his tablet. Adding to his grocery shopping list, perhaps.

‘And you’ve chosen not to be accompanied by a federation representative?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Might I enquire as to why you feel you don’t need the federation in your corner, Sergeant? Given you profess to have no idea what it is you’ve been called here to discuss?’

‘When I understand what it is that you feel might be the problem, I’ll decide if I want a fed rep to help me answer. Sir.’

Jasmine looking across the table at him with an expression that was one-third professional reserve. One-third insincere concern for her officer. And one-third poorly disguised glee.

The likelihood being that Mickey would have refused a fed rep in any case. Even had he been formally warned of what he was about to be accused of. Knowing that with those sorts of charges a fed rep would be about as much use as a warm toffee dildo. Flying solo on this one being very much his best chance of averting the wrath of an enraged Met.

‘Very well. Let us proceed.’

Haskins opened his evidence folder.

‘Sergeant Bale, there are a few things I’d like you to help me with.’

‘Sir.’

The DAC nodded to his DI – Irving, overweight, northern and gruff. A known devotee of the sausage sandwich and therefore never likely to chase down a running perpetrator. But, by reputation, a fiendish bastard when building a case.

‘Sergeant Bale. You live in Monken Park, do you not?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We can lose the “sir” from here on. A simple yes or no will be good enough.’

‘Yes.’

‘And on the 17th of April last, a drug dealer by the name of Warren Margetson was murdered in Monken Park. In an alley just off the High Road. At more or less the same time you arrived in the nearby Carpenter’s Arms to drink with three former colleagues.’

‘Yes.’

‘This dealer… Warren Margetson… was shot. In the head and at close range. With this weapon.’

Mickey watched as evidence item one was produced. Looking an awful lot like the .22 automatic he’d killed Warren with. Enclosed in a sealed evidence bag. He leaned over to look at the gun. Making a show of examining it like it was his first viewing.

‘If you say so, I can only take your word for it.’