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she tried to doze. Speaking about her suspension had brought back the memory, and she tossed and turned, unable to sleep as she went over the details of that fateful day three months ago.
    It had been a big operation. One of the biggest she’d ever been involved in. An operation involving the Met, the revenue, and even some shadowy characters from MI5, although they kept their distance. The bad guys were a mixture of Russian Mafia and homegrown East London hard men. A volatile mix indeed, as the Russians thought the Brits were soft, and the East Londoners resented the Russians muscling in on their territory. Nor their methods, which, even by contemporary standards, were rough and ready. Torture, rape, murder. Anything went. But the rewards were sky high. This gang had fingers in so many pies – drugs, illegal immigrants, prostitution , stolen cars, even booze and cigarettes – bringing them down would be a coup of the highest order, and one that was fraught with danger. The final briefing after months of undercover work of the most dangerous kind was at Limehouse police station near Canary Wharf. Margaret was dressed in monkey boots, jeans, a sweater, flak jacket and baseball cap with police insignia on it. Her Browning .9mm pistol with its fifteen-shot magazine nestled in its leather holster on her hip. Sitting next to her was her Detective Inspector at the time. Tony Utter, known to all as Nutter of the yard – although he’d never been stationed there. It was a nickname the older, heavier man enjoyed, as in reality, it was far removed from his calm, capable personality.
    ‘Are you ready for this?’ he said to Margaret in his soft, growly voice.
    ‘As I’ll ever be,’ she replied, though she could feel the butterflies in her stomach as she said it. But he was the man. The man who’d taken time to mentor Margaret from rookie to DS. ‘I met your mother once,’ he’d told her on their first meeting. ‘I was just a lad in a tall hat. She was the queen. It was something and nothing. A parking ticket. She could have told me to piss off, but she was a real lady. Paid up there and then. I’ll never forget. Even called me sir, although I know she was just humouring me.’
    ‘No worries. You’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Just follow my lead.’
    ‘OK boss.’
    The take down was at a warehouse in the Docklands, where a delivery was expected around midnight. But it was no ordinary cargo – the back of the articulated lorry was stuffed with illegal immigrants and uncut cocaine and it had sailed through customs at Harwick that evening off a ferry from France. Only thing was, one of the customs men had fitted a GPS transmitter and now a little red light on the receiver showed the truck heading along the North Circular road towards the rendezvous.
    Margaret and Utter sat in the lead car, accompanied by two plain vans full of armed police who were to be first into the building, and the convoy set off.
    The warehouse was on a trading estate which, at that time of night, was quiet and deserted. This meant that the cops had to split up their vehicles outside so as not to be obvious.
    As the vehicles separated on the main road outside the estate, Utter’s radio came to life. A pair of plain clothes officers, one male, one female, were strolling up the road arm-in-arm like lovers, and the woman’s voice said. ‘Two-Two to Utter. Think we’ve got a spotter on the service road. One IC one male in a green Transit, reg Tango Four One Four Golf Tango Foxtrot.’
    ‘Roger that,’ said Utter, then spoke to one of the men in the back, a DC named Flynn. ‘Where’s the truck?’
    ‘About four minutes away, stopped. Lights I expect.’
    ‘Right Two-Two,’ he said into the radio. ‘Target expected in four. Wait, then take out the van when the truck arrives.’
    ‘Roger,’ came the reply from the plain clothes female.
    ‘That’ll do us,’ said Utter. ‘We’ll pile in after the spotter’s ours.’
    ‘I hope it’s not