‘Yes, sir.’

‘Why limit yourself to CID?’ he asked. ‘Why not one of the specialist units?’

Because you don’t, not when you’re still on probation, say that you want to be in the Sweeney or a Murder Investigation Team and swan around in a big motor while wearing handmade shoes.

‘I thought I’d start at the beginning and work my way up, sir,’ I said.

‘That’s a very sensible attitude,’ said Neblett.

I suddenly had a horrible thought. What if they were thinking of sending me to Trident? That was the Operational Command Unit charged with tackling gun crime within the black community. Trident was always on the lookout for black officers to do hideously dangerous undercover work, and being mixed race meant that I qualified. It’s not that I don’t think they do a worthwhile job, it’s just that I didn’t think I’d be very good at it. It’s important for a man to know his limitations, and my limitations started at moving to Peckham and hanging around with yardies, postcode wannabes and those weird, skinny white kids who don’t get the irony in Eminem.

‘I don’t like rap music, sir,’ I said.

Neblett nodded slowly. ‘That’s useful to know,’ he said, and I resolved to keep a tighter grip on my mouth.

‘Peter,’ he said, ‘over the last two years I’ve formed a very positive opinion of your intelligence and your capacity for hard work.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And then there is your science background.’

I have three C-grade A levels in Maths, Physics and Chemistry. This is only considered a science background outside of the scientific community. It certainly wasn’t enough to get me the university place I wanted.

‘You’re very useful at getting your thoughts down on paper,’ said Neblett.

I felt a cold lump of disappointment in my stomach. I knew exactly what horrifying assignment the Metropolitan Police had planned for me.