‘Frank Beving wants to have a chat with you; he’ll be the one with the final say.’

‘When?’

‘Soon as you can make it to the station.’

Ron hands me the paper and as he escorts me back through the building I ask him about civilian life.

‘Thinking of getting out are you?’

‘Might be.’

‘Well, my advice to you is this, make sure you’ve got a proper job lined up before you send your resignation letter in. Otherwise you might end up doing something like this.’

‘Can’t be that bad, can it?’

Ron mimics hanging himself, head lopsided, tongue out of the side of his mouth and a strange gurgling sound which makes Kush perk his ears up. As I feel the draught of air from the security door closing behind me I see my hand slipping the letter into the postbox, a flash of white disappearing into the darkness.

Appropriately Medicated

‘Obviously it’s great to see you again.’

At the station I was directed to the third floor where I’m now enduring Station Chief Frank Beving’s patented brand of deep sarcasm.

‘Likewise, Frank. Likewise.’

‘Of course, though, if I can be honest here, I wasn’t that thrilled when Vermeer told me she’d like some help from you.’

The very definition of an oxymoron is Frank Beving being honest. And that’s easy on the oxy bit, with a heavier emphasis on the remainder of the word. Though I’d never tell him that, of course. I’m also suspicious of people who tell you they are being honest, because in my experience they never are.

‘I wasn’t that keen either.’

Beving runs his tongue across his top teeth and studies me as he relaxes back in his chair. I’ve always thought he looks like Rutger Hauer in Blade Runner, probably helped by the electric-shock hairstyle he’s worn ever since I first met him back at the academy. We didn’t like each other then, and the years haven’t done much to improve the situation. No softening, no rapprochement, just good old-fashioned smouldering antagonism.

‘No, I can see that,’ Beving is saying when I tune back in. ‘After everything that happened I wouldn’t blame you for walking away from this for good. But it’s our duty to serve, is it not?’

His grin has a canine quality to it. Or lupine. Deep shudder up spine.

‘It most certainly is.’

I get the feeling he’s waiting for me to say ‘sir’, so I hold off on that, even though I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.

He finally gives in, his too-light-blue eyes with their yellow ring round the iris freaking me out a bit.