Special Branch was being cagey, though. There had been nothing on the system beyond the Parole Board decision and the release date. The details were bound to be on SB’s own system, to which he had no access. So now, Wickens was going to enter the lion’s den. He saw it as a crusade for truth and justice, against the Guardian-reading lefties who ran the Home Office and Parole Board, who would forgive anything a criminal did while forgetting the victims.

To right a wrong you sometimes have to break the rules.

He left the car, clicked the fob lock and strode across the car park to the main building. The male receptionist swallowed Wickens’ excuse about the papers for CID and let him through. Directions were given. Follow the corridor to the CID block, through to the main ground-floor office. He nodded and set off, folder in hand. The place was buzzing. Two of the incident rooms in use, ranks of detectives on phones, looking at screens, piecing clues together. He suppressed his envy and climbed the stairs to the first floor. Much less busy here. He followed the corridor, past fraud, child protection and on to the Special Branch office. The door had a combination keypad, but was ajar. He could see a female receptionist inside on the phone but no one else.

This was no good. He was too early. Too many people about.

Trying to kill some time, Wickens left the CID block and made his way to the refectory. It was packed. The day shift for uniformed officers was just coming to a close, and many were taking the opportunity to load up on subsidised grub before heading off to the sports and social club for a pint. He paid for his pasty, chips and beans at the cash register, then turned to look for somewhere to sit. There were a couple of hot young female officers with a spare seat to either side of them. On any other day he would have been in like a shot, but he was looking for someone else. DI Graham Morgan, the Special Branch detective who hadn’t been seen for weeks in the sports and social, and who according to rumour had a secret project to look after.

And there he was.

Wickens spotted him at the far end of the refectory, sitting alone on a table for two, eating a burger while reading a motoring magazine propped up against a bottle of ketchup, his coat and bag on the seat opposite. Off home afterwards, by the look of it.