Jo felt obliged to pay for the light lunch they’d enjoyed at the Devil’s Dyke pub, although she did wonder what Gary would describe as a heavy one if the mixed grill, chips, onion rings and garlic bread he chose fell into the slimline category. The corner table gave them the privacy they needed yet stunning views of the South Downs National Park which, as ever, brought Jo a rare inner peace. She and Gary had removed their ties and epaulettes but that did little to disguise who they were.

As wakes went it was tame, but at least they could raise a glass of something soft to Phil and swap stories not suitable for a wider audience. He’d have been proud of them, if a little humbled by the fact they’d all forgiven him for the utter stupidity that had spelt the beginning of his end.

‘Coffee anyone?’ asked Jo.

Bob checked his watch. ‘I really ought to be getting back.’

‘It’s only half one,’ said Gary. ‘We’ll get you back by three, no worries.’

‘He’s right, and as I’m having a drink and have the car keys, you’re kind of stuck.’

‘I’m calling my Federation rep about you two bullies.’

‘Bring it on,’ said Jo. Using the pub’s app, she ordered two Americanos and a hot water. As she pressed confirm, a Twitter notification flashed up. Idly she clicked it and wished she hadn’t.

She scanned the article, which led with a long-range shot of Gary kicking the needles into the crematorium’s grass. It went on to explain how the negligent senior officers, one of whom – her – had gone on record calling for the decriminalisation of drugs, had ignored evidence of blatant law-breaking in a place which should be reserved for grief and repose. It asked why they were paying their respects to a convicted criminal during working hours. Was this another example of how little the police, amid the highest drugs death per capita in the UK, cared? it asked rhetorically.

‘You need to see this.’ She turned her phone round on the table and watched both men as they took in the trashing. Gary’s face gave away his escalating rage while Bob’s suggested this was one more layer of bullshit that was making the job intolerable.

‘Wanker,’ said Gary, a little too loudly for a public restaurant.

‘Keep it down,’ snapped Jo.

‘Christ, what the hell gets these scum out of bed in the morning? I’m telling you, there’s a special place in hell for reporters.’

‘All reporters?’ said Jo, with a raised eyebrow.

‘Well not your Darren, obviously,’ Gary replied. He’d bonded with Jo’s husband, who worked for the Daily Journal, over her hospital bed the previous year and they’d been friends since. ‘Anyway, how did they get that picture?’

‘Never mind that. We’ll do the usual rebuttals, trot out the arguments and the stats, but we need to get used to this.’

‘If I’m honest boss, it does make things tricky in the run-up to the Op Vellum trial,’ said Bob as the drinks arrived.

‘How so?’ said Jo.

‘Most of our witnesses, those who aren’t cops that is, are addicts and we don’t want to be batting off accusations that we’ve given them special treatment in exchange for their evidence.’

Jo sipped her hot water. ‘It’s because we got them into treatment that they’re alive to give evidence. If only someone had done that for Caroline.’ As she said it, her eyes pooled at the thought of her sister, riven with the depression and addiction she’d battled since she was twelve. It was being branded a tart during the trial of the councillor who’d been abusing her for years that tipped her over the edge, especially as he walked free from court. Jo still beat herself up for not doing more to help her.

‘I’m just being practical,’ Bob replied.

‘I know you are, but I’m quite happy to come to court and explain what we are trying to do. Users in treatment, dealers in prison. Reduce the demand while choking off the supply and you stand half a chance of saving lives.’

‘We get it,’ said Gary. ‘The thing is … well sometimes you sound a little, what’s the word. Preachy.’

‘Preachy? If you’d gone through what I have then maybe …’

Gary showed her both palms. ‘Sorry,’ he mouthed.

‘This is a long term approach. Everyone wants results overnight but that’s not how these things work. Sorry, Bob, if it causes problems at trial, but we still need to get the message out that users entering treatment will be supported. We’re trying to save lives here.’

‘All right, calm down,’ said Bob. The two senior officers stared at him, shocked by this rare flash of insubordination. ‘I’m just saying there’s more than one big picture here and the one I’m concerned about is locking up the organised crime group we spent two years catching. Now, can we drink up and go?’

Jo and Gary obediently drained their cups, then Jo clicked the app to settle the bill while the two men put on their coats and headed for the door.

‘Thanks,’ said Jo, as the server held the door.

As she followed Gary and Bob, her phone buzzed. A WhatsApp from Darren.

‘Bugger,’ said Jo as she passed an elderly couple coming through the pub door. She quickened her pace to catch Gary and Bob up.

‘Get in the car. I’m going to have to drop you off at the front of the nick. Something’s come up.’

She spotted the two men looking at each other quizzically, then saw something tucked under her wiper blade. She grabbed it.

‘Just when it couldn’t get worse, eh,’ said Gary, with that sickening smirk he seemed to save for her.

‘Darren’s place in hell can go to parking wardens if I get my way.’

She barely waited for Bob to close the door before spraying gravel behind her as she wheel-spun away.

Before working from home became a thing, delayed trains to London had been a daily bind for Darren Howe so, despite his summons to the editor’s office being for 5 p.m., he gave himself a full two hours to get there from Brighton.

It was just as well as following various ‘operational incidents’ and unspecified congestion, when he finally jumped off at St Pancras station he had just twelve minutes, rather than the twenty he needed, to make his way to the glass monolith that served as the Daily Journal’s head office.

He’d spent the journey reminding himself of some of his more groundbreaking articles and totting up his recent page one bylines. He was surprised how few of those there were. Was that why his presence in person had been demanded?

Catching his breath after the dash from the station, he trotted up to the security desk and, in vain, scanned the white-shirted guardians for a familiar face. He swung his rucksack off his back and fished inside for his security pass. His heart sank as he thought he’d left it behind, but eventually he found it wedged inside his Kindle cover.

He flashed it to the guard, put his worldly goods on the X-ray machine and ambled through the metal-detector arch. Grabbing his bag, he pressed the card against the reader and, to his utter relief, the glass door in front of him clicked and he was in.

He chose the escalators over the stairs to rise the three floors to Sam Parkin’s lair in the hope they might settle his pounding heart and red face.

As he expected, the newsroom outside the editor’s office was throbbing with activity: the subeditors shouting demands and profanities at the youngsters hammering away at keyboards. It was one thing not recognising security, but to be unable to name even one of the senior staff made Darren realise how long it was since he’d stepped foot in here.

Darren tapped on Sam’s open door, relieved to see he’d made it on time and that Sam was on his own. No one from HR, either.

The editor looked up from his screen and his fresh face beamed. ‘Hey! Thanks for coming up here, mate. God, it’s been so...