A series of carefully staged photoshoots had cemented his reputation as a hard man, ready to defend the realm. Pictured with the SAS: “Britain’s stealth warriors”. On the bridge of a brand-new aircraft carrier: “Britain’s big stick”. On the flight deck of a Globemaster transport plane: “Britain’s global reach”. By the close of the decade, Sir Patrick Sutherland was very much looking like tomorrow’s man. Well positioned for a major cabinet role. Rumours mentioned the Home Office. The current incumbent being viewed as lightweight and with numbered days. And after that, well, who knew?

And then, in the space of a few months, the bottom had dropped out of his world. China, abruptly no longer anyone’s idea of an acceptable regime, given the mounting evidence of a Uighur genocide to rival Nazi Germany. Forced life-ending organ donations from live prisoners. Compulsory re-marriage of Uighur women whose husbands were interned to Han Chinese men. And, of course, its role in the biggest catastrophe to hit the UK since 1945. A hardening public mood had politicians of all shades running for the moral high ground. Which meant that Sutherland been looking increasingly isolated even before the latest rumours.

They drove into the other end of Downing Street, off Horse Guards, ten minutes before the appointed meeting time. Leaving the gate guards to mind the vehicle, Mickey and Wade escorted Sir Patrick and the major down the steps and into the basement level of Number 10. Where stone-faced members of the Met’s Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection unit waited to check them in.

Mickey, like most coppers in the know, still thought of PaDP as what they used to be called. The Diplomatic Protection Group. Or Doors, Porches and Gates, in one moderately polite alternative. The term ‘Post Monkeys’ having been forbidden on pain of the disciplinary process being applied. Although that hadn’t stopped a previous deputy assistant commissioner dubbing them, along with their Royalty Residential and Aviation Policing Command colleagues, the “Triangle of Laziness”. To universal and poorly concealed merriment.

The skipper in charge of the entrance checkpoint gestured to the empty Prot office.

‘You can wait here, lads, or get a coffee in the canteen.’

Mickey and Wade chose the lesser of two evils, if only by a nose. Sloping off to the basement canteen. Plastic chairs, vending machines, wet trays and the smell of microwaved bacon. All the charm of a chain hotel breakfast buffet. Two cups of machine tea, the caffeine alternative being, from both men’s recent experience, unpalatable.

‘That was fun. Times like these, I’m happy that you’re the skipper. Good thing we weren’t taking him to Glasgow, eh?’

They sat, blowing on their scalding tea, enjoying the momentary change of pace from constant readiness for anything. Mickey exchanged greetings with Roz via WhatsApp, sending her a heart-eyed face emoji and getting ‘I love you too, you muppet’ back.