‘Yes, boss. Anything else while we’re at it? Shine your shoes, make your tea?’ said Anderson, a whininess creeping around the edge of his words like a petulant teenager. ‘I’ve got a better idea. How about you let us do our job and worry about your own case. We’ve worked too hard to just—’

‘Really?’ Porter cut him off. His tolerance for Anderson’s excuses slipped away in an instant. ‘Six months and the best you have – sorry, my mistake, had – was a low-level warehouse fella so small-time he barely registered on the scale of criminal intent. And you really think this is a pissing contest so I can get to shake hands with the chief constable and steal your headlines?’

Anderson glared at him, but Porter hadn’t finished with him yet.

‘If we have evidence that James Bolton is guilty of murder, I’m damned if he gets to keep walking round no matter what else he’s done. I can place him with Natasha now, and I guarantee you he will have fucked up somewhere else as well. If I can pin whatever went down at her flat on him, or the scene from yesterday, then he’s going down for that.’

He’d nearly said ‘then he’s mine’, but making it clear just how personal this was starting to feel wasn’t the way to get cooperation from the other detectives.

He sucked in a deep breath and tried a different tack. ‘Look, we both want the same thing, but you don’t put one copper in the morgue and another in intensive care and get a stay of execution. If we can pin even one of those on him, then maybe he rolls and gives us Locke to strike a deal for himself.’

‘Whatever. Let’s just get on with it,’ Anderson grumbled. ‘But get one thing clear: you’re not my boss. You don’t order me around. I was closing cases when you were still squeezing spots, so less of the attitude and we’ll be just fine.’

Porter just looked at him for a few seconds until Anderson broke the stare, and headed out with Whittaker in tow, looking slightly embarrassed by his partner’s reactions. Porter waited till they were both gone before closing the door and slumping back into his seat.

‘All the ladies love a bad boy, guv. Does this mean you want to start playing “bad cop” in our next interview?’