Falls was dressed for school, pressed her uniform, gave her sensible shoes a serious buff, examined herself in the mirror, grimaced as she discovered some new lines round her eyes. Tried opening them wide, worse, it seemed to deepen the ridges. Got in her makeup bag, covered them fast.

She was on her second coffee, no sugar.

Recently, her weight had begun to climb, and for one mad moment, she’d thought:

Ah, the hell with it, I’ll score some snow, solve the whole deal.

The madness passed. Sure, she’d lose weight and:

Her job

Her home

Her mind.

Had been round that block more than once. A slice of Danish was perched beside the coffee-pot. Moving fast, she grabbed it, slung it in the bin, shouted:

‘See if I care.’

A pile of notes, outlining the talk she should give at the school, was on the floor. She’d read them once, the very first paragraph proposed:

‘The officer should immediately establish a rapport with the students.’

Yeah, right.

Like tell them where to score some Grade-A dope.

The wanker had obviously never heard of Brixton Comprehensive, the first on Falls’s list. The ‘students’ were usually armed-knives, bottles, bats, sharpened combs-and the only rapport they sought was with the local crack dealer.

Falls knew the assignment was one step from the street. The urge to chuck, to walk, was overpowering. But, like Brant, the job was in her blood. Despite the previous years of disaster, she still got a buzz from being a cop. Nothing on earth equalled the rush of hitting the street. Brant knew, had said:

‘You’re an adrenaline junkie and no matter what rolls down the pike, this is the only work that gets your mojo cranking.’