For Bailey, undercover work was a necessity rather than a choice. Her adrenaline threshold had been pushed so high by that life of constant peril that normal existence seemed pallid and flat by comparison. The irony was that although undercover work was responsible for her PTSD, it was also the one thing that mitigated its impact. The nightmares, the trouble focusing, the panic attacks – all of those things receded when she was fully engaged in that role, mainlining on the danger she craved so profoundly.

She pulled herself out of bed. Once she was awake, Bailey found it near impossible to get back to sleep and she knew that rather than lie there ruminating in the darkness, letting negative thoughts overwhelm her, the best thing she could do right now was to get up and find other things to occupy her mind.

Entering the bathroom, she flicked on the light and looked at herself in the mirror, confronted once again by that familiar ghostly complexion of ashen skin and dark rings around the eyes. Frequent lack of sleep left her with a constant residual background fatigue which threatened to take the edge off her capabilities. She’d have to push it back with an energy drink or two later in the day.

Opening the bathroom cabinet, she took out a box of beta blockers, popped two from the blister pack and knocked them back with a mouthful of water straight from the tap.

She went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Switching on the TV, she flicked aimlessly from channel to channel, as usual finding little at this hour that grabbed her interest.

She paused on the news to watch that for a bit. It was going on about some of the candidates who were running for Mayor of London in the upcoming mayoral elections in May. It seemed the favourite to win was the Conservative candidate, Lewis Ballantyne. His manifesto was strong on law and order, with pledges to significantly increase both the size and the power of the Metropolitan Police. Bailey knew he was supremely popular with the Met’s top brass for this very reason. On the TV right now, talking in a pre-recorded segment, she watched him speaking in his Home Counties accent as he smoothly reiterated his election agenda. Probably in his late forties, he was immaculately groomed, with one of those healthy tans you got from going on plenty of expensive holidays abroad. But like so many politicians, he emanated a faint air of sleaze and Bailey wondered just how far he’d actually keep to his pledges if he did end up getting elected.

After a short while, she switched over, eventually settling on a vapid reality TV show about people who’d had terrible tattoos and now wanted something done about them. Bailey herself still had the tattoo on her lower back that she’d acquired during the prison job as part of her infiltration into a prison gang. But unlike the people on the TV show, Bailey was actually very fond of her tattoo and had no plans to get it removed. It was just too good a piece of artwork.