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When PC McDonald heard Brant had been shot, he nearly punched the air, wanted to shout:

‘Fucking brilliant.’

But he was in the police canteen and had to act like the others, pretend to be shocked, outraged, jumping to his feet, ready to seek out the shooter. He was shocked all right, couldn’t believe that someone had finally got Brant. He hated that bastard with all his heart. There’d been a time, Jesus, how long ago? McDonald had been golden, the kid on the way up, earmarked by the Super as his boy. All he had to do, simple really, was ensure that Brant got fucked and good.

Piece of cake.

Alas, piece of very poisoned cake.

Brant was such a wild card, such a maverick, that all you had to do was watch him, let the proof fall into your lap, bingo, he was gone. But Brant got wind of it, and ever since, McDonald’s career was in the toilet. Fuckup followed fuckup and always, behind each new disaster was the smirk of Brant. It culminated in a last-ditch effort to be a hero and yeah, that went south and worse, McDonald got shot. The Met were in dire straits and desperately needed good press so they managed to have McDonald appear some sort of half-arsed hero, and though he kept his job, he was a figure of derision to the others. A leper in blue, to be avoided, and the Super, just buying time till he quietly dumped him.

Meantime, he was drawing all the shite assignments and like, who was he gonna call? The duties usually given to rookies were now thrown to him. His current brief? Standing outside shopping centres, giving directions to pissed-off pedestrians. He needed something major, something biblical, to turn his career around, but for the life of him, he couldn’t come up with anything. Nigh resigned to his fate, he’d begun looking at security guard advertisements, truly, the bottom rung of a cop’s descent into hell.

WPC Andrews was the exact opposite of McDonald.