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Vivienne copy the relevant parts of it and get up to speed.’
    ‘Oh she’ll love that,’ Jimmy chuckled over his shandy. ‘So is it a rape case?’
    ‘No. Murder. I take it they get priority?’
    ‘Yes, guv.’
    ‘Fine. I’m going to be out in the field a bit, re-interviewing witnesses, that sort of thing. I’ll need to give Sam some good work experience, but I was hoping you might like to ride shotgun too every now and then.’
    Jimmy Jessop’s pale eyes glittered. ‘Any time, guv,’ he said happily.
    Hillary nodded. ‘Right then. Back to the cupboard – sorry, office. I’ve got to get some admin stuff sorted out – get my ID and salary sorted. But first thing tomorrow we get cracking. And until I get a car, I was hoping that you wouldn’t mind acting as chauffeur.’
    Jimmy Jessop didn’t mind that in the least.
     
    That night, Tom Warrington worked up a sweat in his dad’s garage. Tom had turned the workspace into a reasonable gym, complete with a boxer’s sparring bag, a rowing machine, weight-lifting apparatus and various other pieces of equipment, all designed to increase his muscles.
    His Dad approved. Although he was proud of his son, and the police uniform that he wore, he and his mother couldn’t help but worry about him. It was a bad world out there, and the news was full of coppers who got knifed and shot and beaten up by scum.
    He certainly didn’t begrudge leaving his car out in the rain so that his only child could keep fit.
    He brought a cup of tea out for him now, and stood watching him work. He danced around the boxer’s punch bag like that Muhammad Ali in his heyday. And John Warrington nodded with approval at his son’s bulging biceps and the force that went behind each thump. Just let any snivelling little drug dealer take on his Tom and he’d soon regret it all right.
    ‘Here you go, son,’ he said, putting the mug down on top of a set of rounded iron weights.
    ‘Thanks, Dad.’ Tom stopped sparring to walk over and take the mug, careful to unwrap the protective bandages around his knuckles before picking it up.
    ‘You heard anything about that promotion yet, son?’ John asked. ‘I’ll be glad when you’re out of uniform and off the streets.’
    Tom Warrington’s cat-green eyes narrowed just slightly in impatience. ‘I told you, Dad. It isn’t easy to break through into the detective squads any more. Cut backs and all. But my sergeant is behind me, and he says I aced the test,’ he lied, ‘so it’s just a question of waiting for some opening to come up. In the mean time, I don’t mind walking the beat.’
    ‘OK, son. Don’t stay out here too long though. You’ve got early shift tomorrow, you need to rest.’
    Tom nodded, and did in fact begin to wind down his evening workout. Not because he listened to his father, of course. But because he had other stuff to do.
    Living at home with your parents at the age of twenty-six was a bit naff, but with house prices like they were, there was no way he could afford a place of his own. And nobody wanted to share a flat with him. For all he gave the impression to his parents that he had a load of friends down at the nick, and was very much ‘one of the lads’ Tom Warrington was a bit of a loner.
    Upstairs, in his bedroom, he turned on his computer and began to google.
    He printed off page after page, and photo after photo, and pinned them up on the cork boards around his room. He kept the door to his bedroom locked at all times, of course, telling his parents that he had confidential police files in there, and had to be careful. In reality, these only existed in his fantasies.
    Now he pinned up a 6-year-old photograph taken from an old article in the Oxford Times .
    In it, Hillary Greene was receiving her medal for gallantry.
    Tom Warrington sat back in his swivel chair and slowly looked around the room. Images of Hillary Greene looked back at him. Just that afternoon he’d volunteered for a stint in the ever-unpopular