There’s a crash and lots of swearing as a microphone stand falls off the podium, but I only have eyes for Jemima.

‘But I thought—’99

‘His mum is in the police,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘Was in the police, I mean. She died in the line when he was twelve. He thinks they didn’t do enough to protect her. It was a botched operation, from the little he’s ever said about it. He’d never admit it colours his judgement – but it wouldn’t take much for him to slip up when he’s this upset. Especially when a git like Thomas is the one who might be ahead of him. Make a scene, cover himself in indignity, turn the story for all the wrong reasons…’

She trails off as my eyes wander to the cables snaked all over the stage, knotting and blurring into one big, black, smudgy mass. This new little nugget of information sits in my mind like a meteor just crashed in from outer space, blowing up everything I’ve ever assumed about Dominic. But before I can ask any more questions, hush descends as uniformed officers parade into the room.

I peer at them, lined up penguin-perfect with their chests puffed out in black and white. If I wasn’t suddenly so confused I could pretend we were all in a cartoon.

‘Here we go,’ Jemima mutters as one officer leans forward to tap a microphone.

‘Thanks for your patience,’ he booms. ‘The commissioner will be with you shortly.’

The commissioner? The entire crowd squawks with surprise, heads swivelling on every neck up ahead. And on cue, in she comes, pausing for the flashbulbs up front before walking herself to the single chair hidden behind the bundle of microphones.

Jemima curses, a low hiss into her collar. Unease prickles up my back as the room stills, like we’re all birds on a branch, waiting out an incoming gale. If only I could actually fly away.

‘Good afternoon,’ the commissioner says, the piece of paper in her hand just visible above all the bobbles on the desk. ‘Thank you all for being here on such an important day for the Metropolitan Police.’

I squint as she unfolds a pair of glasses on to her nose, everything about her so neat and precise that she could be a pencil 100drawing, a sketch I’m almost sure I’ve seen before; a page of a book I know I’ve read but can’t quite remember, fluttering away almost as soon as I register it – peripheral but still unmistakable.

She pauses, pushing at her glasses with a fingertip. I hold my breath as the lip of the paper starts to tremble.