“Look at us. Look at where we bloody are,” she said, thumping a fist against the door at her back. “We can’t do this. I’ve compromised myself enough already.” She took a ragged breath and added, spacing the words out as if to emphasize their weight, “I can’t afford it. I’ve my career to think of… and Toby.”

The phone rang, its short double brrr echoing loudly in the small room. He stepped back to his desk and fumbled for the receiver, bringing it to his ear. “Kincaid,” he said shortly, then listened for a moment. “Right, thanks.” Replacing the handset in the cradle, he looked at Gemma. “Car’s waiting.” Sentences formed and dissolved in his mind, each sounding more futile than the last. This was not the time or the place to discuss it, and he would only embarrass them both by going on about it now.

Finally, he turned away and slipped into his jacket, using the moment to swallow his disappointment and compose his features in as neutral an expression as he could manage. Facing her again, he said, “Ready, Sergeant?”

Big Ben struck ten o’clock as the car sped south across Westminster bridge, and in the backseat beside Gemma, Kincaid watched the lights shimmer on the Thames. They sat in silence as the car zigzagged on through south London, inching its way towards Surrey. Even their driver, a usually chatty PC called Williams, seemed to have caught their mood, remaining hunched in taciturn concentration over the wheel.

Clapham had vanished behind them when Gemma spoke. “You’d better fill me in on this one, guv.”

Kincaid saw the flash of Williams’s eyes as he cast a surprised glance at them in the rearview mirror. Gemma should have been briefed, of course, and he roused himself to answer as ordinarily as possible. Gossip in the ranks would do neither of them any good. “Little village near Guildford. What’s it called, Williams?”