1

      Chief Superintendent Brian Gerrard looked down at the open file on his desk and nodded approvingly before looking up and smiling at the expressionless PC Jack King who sat in front of him.

      ‘An excellent end of probation report,’ Gerrard beamed, his shining blue eyes magnified by his spectacles as he sat straight-backed in his chair, trying to stretch his five-foot-eight body as far as he could. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Inspector?’ he asked Inspector Joanne Johnston who was prowling around the office like a caged leopard.

      ‘Very impressive,’ Johnston agreed.

      King forced a smile onto his handsome face and continued to wish the meeting would be over and he could be free from the two senior officers he barely knew. He’d passed them in the corridor from time to time, respectfully said hello in deference to their rank, but this was the first time either had actually spoken properly to him. He didn’t mind about that. He just wanted the meeting to be over so he could get back out on the streets. Like Johnston before him, he was on the Metropolitan Police’s accelerated promotion scheme and knew his working life would soon be dominated by endless meetings and coordinating. Whatever time he had left on the front line was already precious to him. If it hadn’t been for his parents, he may have even considered giving up his accelerated promotion to stay in the action indefinitely. Already he understood that the police was one organization that could only be truly understood by standing at the bottom looking up – not peering down at it from a glass tower.

      His appearance was the opposite of Gerrard’s, who looked grey and weak, albeit slim and tidy; whereas King was almost six foot tall and muscular, his short brown hair framing deep brown eyes, high cheekbones and a square jaw, and his skin a deep olive, the colour of someone who laboured hard outside. Johnston was undeniably attractive, but she looked like a lawyer in a police uniform. As he listened to their congratulations he imagined them avoiding as much real police work as they could – spending most of their time on courses and safe attachments, keeping themselves out of harm’s way while also protecting their squeaky clean records, ensuring there would be no skeletons in their closets that could bar them from the dizzy heights of becoming Assistant Commissioners or perhaps even more. Whereas he had won the respect of his peers through hard work and a willingness to get his hands dirty – overcoming their natural mistrust of anyone on accelerated promotion.

      ‘Thank you,’ he answered through his forced smile. ‘I really enjoyed the work.’

      ‘Well that’s all behind you now,’ Gerrard spluttered a little. ‘Onwards and upwards for you, Jack. First you’ll need to complete your sergeants’ course and then you’ll have to go back to Bramshill for additional training. Then of course you’ll serve the minimum amount of time possible as a sergeant before becoming an inspector and then, so long as you pass the exams and keep away from anything controversial … who knows what heights you could reach? The key is not having any skeletons in your cupboard, if you understand what I’m saying.’

      ‘Doesn’t sound like I’m going to get much of a chance to do any real police work,’ he teased them.

      ‘As you travel through the ranks,’ Gerrard smiled, ‘you’ll realize that making policy and providing a general umbrella of supervision is the true backbone of the service. Anyone can charge around in a police car arresting people, but adhering to government targets of crime reduction and managing the borough budget is an entirely different matter. In many ways now is the time for you to put away such childish things and accept the responsibilities that come with having been selected for accelerated promotion.’

      ‘Of course,’ King smiled through gritted teeth. ‘I understand.’

      ‘Good,’ Gerrard beamed.

      ‘Excellent,’ Johnston added through her assassin’s smile.

      ‘Well if that’s everything, sir,’ King stated more than asked, rising from his chair, ‘I should be getting back to my duties.’

      ‘Of course,’ Gerrard agreed. ‘Of course.’

      ‘But I would like to say that I’m very much looking forward to returning to the borough as a sergeant,’ King added, before immediately regretting it.

      ‘Return?’ Gerrard asked, the smile dead on his face.

      ‘Here?’ Johnston added. ‘To Newham?’

      ‘Yes, ma’am,’ King confirmed.

      ‘Well, that’s your choice entirely,’ Gerrard took over, ‘but there are easier boroughs in which to complete the rank of sergeant. Ones in which you could say you’re less likely to be … tarnished with anything unsavoury or unpleasant that for example the media could exploit later on in your career when you’re of a suitably high rank. These are the sorts of things that a potential future Commissioner already has to start thinking about. You take my point?’

      ‘Of course,’ King nodded and tried to look serious, ‘but I like it here. Newham will do me fine.’

      ‘Well,’ Gerrard recovered his smile, ‘maybe after a few weeks at Bramshill you’ll change your mind.’

      ‘Maybe,’ King lied and pointed at the door. ‘Is it all right if I …?’ he let his words trail away.

      ‘Keen to make the most of your last few hours as a constable, eh?’ Gerrard asked, pretending that he could understand what that might mean to someone like King.

      ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered, heading for the door as quickly as he could, turning the handle, only seconds from freedom before Gerrard stopped him.

      ‘And remember, Jack,’ he told him, ‘the likes of you and I and Inspector Johnston here have been selected to rule over this organization of ours. We carry on our shoulders the heavy burden of responsibility.’

      ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ King answered before escaping through the door, blowing through puffed-out cheeks with relief as he closed it behind him. ‘Thank fuck that’s over,’ he whispered under his breath and headed towards the station yard to hitch a lift back to his beat in an area of Newham he doubted either Gerrard or Johnston had ever seen.

       Two hours later

      King walked along Central Park Road in East Ham cursing the body armour and traditional-style helmet that made the intense heat of a London summer almost unbearable. He listened to every call that came out over his personal radio, determined to end his constable career with yet another decent arrest and maintain his reputation as a thief-taker, something that had surprised his peers and seniors alike, unaccustomed as they were to seeing anyone on accelerated promotion showing any street skills. But he felt born to be a street cop – his law degree nothing more than something he’d obtained to please his parents. Although they still expressed their deep displeasure at his chosen career, the accelerated promotion programme he’d been offered as a graduate had mollified them. He’d accepted the deal to keep the peace, but doubted he’d stick to it. Maybe he’d even join the CID proper – not just on an attachment as a future senior officer passing through, but as a trained and qualified detective. It would kill off his chances of ever being anything more than a detective inspector or at best a detective chief inspector, but at least he wouldn’t be permanently trapped behind a desk.

      Finally a call came out over his personal radio that interested him and that he could get to on foot within the acceptable response time: suspected domestic disturbance at 15 Gillett Avenue – sounds of a disturbance in the background.

      ‘I’ll take that, 914 over,’ he said into his radio.

      ‘You