Which got him a disbelieving, if sympathetic look. Inspector Phil, after all, knew the unwritten rules. And allowed himself to be guided through who should do what by the senior skippers on the team. Duty allocations and plum jobs already neatly stitched up between them over morning coffee.

Which was why Mickey never got to go anywhere exotic. Or do any of the more high-profile work. Just the usual, week in, week out. The same principal, the same locations. With only the occasional excitement of a head of state visit. All hands to the overtime pump, when a foreign leader came to visit. But the first rule of being Mickey Bale had long been never to be seen giving a shit. And besides, he had a new calling, coiled in the back of his mind like a sleeping cobra. The inspector nodded equably, clearly not giving too much of a shit either.

‘Fair enough. It’d be a lot easier to roster you guys if you were all as easy-going about who you get to babysit. Have a quiet tour of duty, Michael. We’ll see you in four days’ time.’

He nodded, watching the inspector as he walked away towards the canteen. No sign of any interference by his former beat partner. Went through into the canteen and gathered his bag carrier up by eye. The man in question favouring the identikit Prot image too, his fair hair cut neatly, clean-shaven with the obligatory suit, tie and shiny shoes.

‘You coming, Wade?’

Constable Harris rose from the table where he was chatting with several other junior officers. A collective antidote to the power of the cliques. And a clique in the making, obviously. Give them long enough and it’d be them stitching up the best assignments.

‘Coming, Skip.’

Wade was already armed, and had collected their allocated car keys and log book. A switched-on guy, Wade. Could go far.

They headed downstairs to the underground car park. Gleaming under the fluorescent tubes, ranks of cars awaited. Jags, BMWs, Range Rovers of all persuasions. With a separate row for the armoured cars. Outwardly identical unless you knew what to look for. But two tonnes heavier. With supercharged engines to move that weight around.

Range Rover Sentinels, top-of-the-line protection. Bulletproof, if a situation ended up going to the races, or so the theory went. Mickey, not so sure. Reckoning that a full magazine of 7.62mm at close range would open even a Sentinel up like a can of very expensive dog meat. He opened the boot of their car, a grey Range Rover Sport. Wade affected his usual Gary Oldman drawl to voice his approval.

‘Range Rover. My favourite.’

Mickey grinned at the younger man.

‘Mate, it’s a car. And it belongs to the taxpayer.’

‘Yeah, Skip, I know. But what a car, eh?’