The task force had a temporary base at New Scotland Yard because the building we usually occupied around the corner was being refurbished. But it suited me because the interior was fresh and modern, and there were spectacular views across the Thames. It was also much closer to the Rose and Crown and a couple of other cosy little watering holes.

I was among the first to leave the pub after four gin and tonics, a ham sandwich and a packet of cheese and onion crisps.

I would have stayed later if it had been Friday, but I had no intention of getting pissed on a Monday night.

I’d enjoyed myself, though. The banter, the camaraderie, the chance to talk about things other than work. Plus, I’d also managed to steer clear of Tony Marsden, who’d spent much of the time chatting up the buxom barmaid.

DCS Drummond had been on good form throughout and had taken particular pleasure in using the occasion to reveal some more good news – that the wife of our colleague, DI Dave Prentiss, had given birth to a baby boy that very afternoon, which was why he wasn’t with us. Prentiss was one of the detectives I got on well with, so I was really happy for him.

After leaving the pub I walked to Embankment tube station and travelled south via the Northern Line to Balham where Aidan and I rented a house just off the High Road.

I got home shortly after nine o’clock. Aidan was watching the television in the living room and he was surprised to see me back so early.

‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Did they run out of booze?’

I laughed. ‘I didn’t dare stay any longer. It was my day off, remember, and I had a couple of wines with lunch. One more alcoholic drink and no way will I be fit for work in the morning.’

He got up from his favourite armchair, pulled me into an embrace, and kissed me tenderly on the mouth.

As always it was just what I needed at the end of a day spent apart. His warm, minty breath and the feel of his body so close to mine gave rise to a familiar sense of gratitude for having him in my life.

I loved him beyond measure and I knew in my heart that I’d always be able to trust him. He wasn’t like Tony Marsden or Kate Chappell’s adulterous husband.

Having got my pulse racing, he helped me off with my coat and offered to make me a cup of coffee.

‘Sit down and relax,’ he said. ‘Fancy a couple of chocolate biscuits?’

‘Does the Pope believe in Christ?’

He gave me another kiss, this time on the forehead, and I watched him slide off into the kitchen.