So saying, there lurked the constant awareness at the back of her mind that at any point they could have discovered she was a cop and that this could be a trap, the conclusion of which would be her dead body being found in a car boot somewhere.

Her nerves jangled with a barely suppressed terror at the thought of being exposed and she couldn’t help but recall the horrific torture she’d been subjected to after her cover had been blown with the car theft gang; in her undercover role, she was only ever one step away from that kind of thing happening again. On a wider level, the perpetual threat of exposure took an undeniable toll on her mental health, and that was the main thing the psychologist was interested in knowing – would Bailey burn out from the stress and lose the plot completely? But despite the incessant peril of her job, Bailey did know that she was too much of a restless soul to do any other kind of work. She was addicted too heavily to the fear and the adrenaline, and to the unbeatable satisfaction of seeing powerful crooks ending up behind bars all because of her.

And so long as she stayed alive, she’d carry on doing it. With undercover work, the key to survival was to be able to trust your gut instincts and if that inner voice told you something was off, you dropped everything and got out of there as fast as possible. So far, her intuition was telling her that everything was okay… so far…

She slowed down and turned off the lane onto an unpaved track, passing a sign indicating that this was private land. Driving slowly over the uneven ground along the edge of a field, Bailey soon saw a cluster of cars parked up ahead, along with a number of people milling around next to them.

She pulled up next to a large black Range Rover Velar and switched off the engine. Taking the wodge of cash out of the glove compartment, she tucked it into the pocket of her jacket, got out of the car and headed in the direction of the group of people.

It wasn’t a large gathering and she immediately spotted Rick. He was dressed like a country squire in a Barbour jacket, a flat cap and Hunter wellies, and in the crook of his right arm, he was holding a shotgun, broken open. He noticed her at almost exactly the same time and turned to approach her.

‘Glad you could make it,’ he said, as if she really would have refused his invite.

‘Nice to get out of the Big Smoke once in a while,’ she replied, eyeing the shotgun with a little trepidation, wondering why he was holding it.

He looked her up and down, nodding in approval. ‘Good to see that you’re dressed appropriately.’

As per his instructions, she’d opted for a quilted jacket, jeans and wellington boots.

His black eyes scanned the horizon. ‘We own all this land round here,’ he said. ‘This farm. Everything for miles. Old Bill won’t have eyes on us out here, so you don’t need to worry about them.’