Den, his thirty years done, installing windows to supplement his pension. Average height for the Job, greying hair and a deceptively strong jawline. Never really a copper’s copper. Always a bit stand-offish, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there. He’d done his time with a perpetual vague air of mystification. Seemingly a bit confused as to what the whole thing was all about. Deano reckoned Den would go to his grave still not quite sure what it all had been for. Although to be fair Deano had an opinion on everything and was never knowingly wrong.

Steve, in his penultimate year as a detective sergeant. Squat and muscular. Still powerful despite the years. His curly hair fading from ginger to silver at the temples. Wondering what to do next. Although where Den had always been uncertain, Steve never really worried about the meaning of his existence. Five years as a soldier before joining the Job. After a tour in Bosnia as a nineteen-year-old lance corporal. Where it was pretty obvious that he’d grown up fast. And seen things that had scarred him for the rest of his life.

Consequently, no room for any doubts in Steve’s mind. He knew it was all meaningless. Knew his place in life was simple. To protect the good people. And to put the bad people down, just as hard as they deserved. Simples.

And Mickey? Mickey had always been the baby among them. Initially under their collective wing. The youngest by years, but now a long way from his roots nicking drunks on a Friday night. A very long way. And they all knew it.

He strolled out of the pub and down the High Road towards home. Looked across the road with just enough interest as he passed. They had the tent up already, blocking the pavement. Forensics techs pulling on Tyvek suits, preparing to do their ghoulish work. He shrugged for any watching camera and walked on, getting home dead on time. Enjoying Roz’s approval.

‘You finally growing a brain there, Mickey?’

‘Might be. But don’t—’

‘Hold my breath. I know. I heard the sirens.’

With that look. Like he ought to know what had caused them. Pricking at Mickey’s guilty conscience. Even if that wasn’t even remotely what she was thinking.

‘Looks like a serious one. The locals have got a tent up in the High Street. Tyvek suits and a fingertip search.’

She shrugged and switched the searchlight of her attention to making him a cup of tea. Herbal, of course, to help him sleep.

‘You’re up at oh-stupid-hundred, so you need all the—’

The doorbell interrupted her. They both looked over at the video feed that he and everyone else in Prot used. Best to know who’s knocking before you open a nice thick armoured front door.

‘Isn’t that Jason Felgate?’