Templer already seemed to spend a disproportionate amount of time in meetings focused on the needs of the Parliament. Siobhan knew that she hated this. No police officer joined the force because of a fondness for paperwork. Yet more and more, budgeting and finances were the topics of the day. Officers who could run their cases or their stations on-budget were prized specimens; those who could actually underspend were seen as altogether rarer and more rarefied beings.

Siobhan could see that it was taking its toll on Gill Templer. She always had a slightly harried look about her. Glints of gray were showing in her hair. She either hadn’t noticed or couldn’t find time these days to get them done. Time was defeating her. It made Siobhan wonder what price she would be asked to pay for climbing the career ladder. Always supposing that ladder was still visible after today.

Templer seemed preoccupied with a search of her desk drawer. Eventually she gave up and closed it, focusing her attention on Siobhan. As she did so, she lowered her chin. This had the effect of hardening her gaze but also, Siobhan couldn’t help noticing, of accentuating the folds of skin around the throat and mouth. When Templer moved in her chair, her suit jacket creased below the breasts, showing that she’d gained some weight. Either too much fast food or too many dinners at evening functions with the brass. Siobhan, who’d been in the gym at six o’clock that morning, sat a little more upright in her own chair, and lifted her head a little higher.

“I’m assuming it’s about Martin Fairstone,” she said, beating Templer to the opening jab of the bout. When Templer stayed quiet, she went in again. “I had nothing to do with -”

“Where’s John?” Templer interrupted sharply.

Siobhan just swallowed.

“He’s not at his flat,” Templer continued. “I sent someone round there to check. Yet according to you, he’s taken a couple of days’ sick leave. Where is he, Siobhan?”