‘Dinnae worry, it’s nothing,’ she said, sitting down heavily at her desk. It was clear she was in some pain. Gillard didn’t want to make a fuss about it, but thought he would keep an eye on her. The rest of his team wasn’t exactly fighting fit. DS Vikram Singh had Covid, and had already been off for three weeks, DC Michelle Tsu was self-isolating after a family member had tested positive, and DC Shireen Corey Williams from the economic crime unit was stuck in Greece with an elderly relative who had fallen ill months ago. That left DI Claire Mulholland and the old reliable DC Carl Hoskins.

Mulholland was out of the office, and Hoskins was at his desk, eating some kind of deep-fried food. Shaven headed, clinically obese and something of a dinosaur in terms of sexual politics, Hoskins represented the traditional past of British policing. But you had to hand it to him, he was hardly ever sick, did long hours week in, week out, and uncomplainingly tackled tedious tasks like looking through CCTV. Gillard often thought of Hoskins as being like the bass player in his little band. His steadiness helped hold it all together. Even now, he was on the phone while looking through the ANPR database. Line after line of traffic camera number plate matches were flicking up on his screen.

Curious, Gillard heaved himself out of his desk and wandered over. Hoskins hurriedly wound up the phone call, and clicked off the database.

‘What are you working on, Carl?’

‘Bit of this bit of that,’ he said, swivelling on his seat. The detective constable had finished his meal, but had showered bits of breadcrumbed fat on the floor around his chair and on his lap. There was grease on the screen, on the keyboard, and all round the detective’s mouth.

‘Look, Carl. I don’t mind a sandwich at the desk; we all work hard and have to work through lunch. But once we get to hot-desking at the new HQ, there’s no way you’ll be able to eat chicken nuggets at the keyboard.’

‘It wasn’t nuggets, sir. A battered saveloy and a Scotch egg.’

Gillard shuddered inwardly. ‘It doesn’t matter. No one would want to sit at the desk after you.’

Hoskins face creased in satisfaction. This was clearly part of the plan to mark out personal territory when the force vacated the historic Mount Browne site and moved into its planned new headquarters in Leatherhead. That wouldn’t happen until 2024, and just like the water project he’d seen, might well be subject to delays and cost over-runs.

‘The cleaners have complained, you know,’ Gillard said. ‘They’re on a pittance, and they say your part of the room takes as long as the rest of the floor.’