It was a question he asked at the beginning of every meeting of this kind. His voice was stern. He took no prisoners. He couldn’t afford to. His face as hard as granite, he stared down his guests.

‘Because if anyone doesn’t want to be here, now’s the time to go.’

The oversized clock on the wall kept time as he awaited a response. His friends and neighbours shuffled, heads low, hands wrapped around their Denby cups. The thick curtains on the windows were closed, the corner lamps casting the space in soft light. Here, with the fire warming the backs of his legs, Lloyd was the king of his domain.

He shot a look at his wife, Joanne. Like him, she had prematurely aged over the last ten years. The extra pounds she had gained gave her a homely look, and the way she chatted to customers in her coffee shop you would almost think she was content. But there was a deadness in her eyes, should you dare to look closer. He watched her gaze dance over her visitors, her eyes narrowing a fraction of an inch, almost scanning their thoughts. She had known them long enough to read any signs of discontent. She was his barometer. What she didn’t know, she made it her business to find out. She smiled, and he relaxed. For now, all was well with the world.

‘All’s fine here, Sarge.’ Andrew Bambridge’s low, deep voice was met with a series of nods.

Lloyd felt the usual satisfaction at the mention of his role. He worked with Bambridge back at the station, and there was strength in numbers at meetings such as these. If Bambridge wanted to address him as Sergeant in his house, then so be it. When you shared a secret as big as this, everybody needed to be kept in line.

Lloyd cleared his throat as he prepared to address the people in the room. He was ninety-nine per cent sure he could trust them, but there was always that one per cent. That tiny, lingering doubt that kept him awake at night. He was in too deep to back down now. This wasn’t a village meeting. This was a briefing.