So while they’d hummed and hawed, Paula had been transferred back to Bradfield, her home force. She’d been seconded to a long-running investigation into people trafficking and sexual exploitation, an operation that had been emotionally tougher than anything she’d previously encountered. The call back to ReMIT had felt like salvation.
Stacey had been sent on attachment to the Met to work on financial crimes. The hardest aspect of the job had been remembering not to show how much she could do. Working with Carol Jordan, first in Bradfield and then in ReMIT, had given Stacey absolute freedom to go where she wanted online and do whatever they needed her to do. She had become adept at the post hoc validation of things she really shouldn’t have been poking around in. As long as the end result looked clean, Carol had left her to it.
It had taken her three days to understand that doing things the straight way left her frustrated. Worse, it bored her. It had forced her to recognise that, in spite of her apparent adherence to convention, she was actually more in tune with the renegades than the hunters. ‘The only good thing about it is that I’ve got so much free headspace, I’ve developed a lovely little app for working out the calorific value of your keystrokes at the computer,’ she’d confided to Paula over a Chinese takeaway back in Bradfield.
‘Why would anybody want to know that?’ Bemused, Paula frowned at the wonton she’d just speared with a chopstick.
‘Exercise and diet freaks want to know everything. Trust me, they’ve elevated narcissism to a whole new level. Got to keep the business moving forward, Paula. It’s shark to the max out there. If you stop moving forward, you die.’ It was a stealthy reminder that Stacey’s police salary was only a fraction of her income. She’d developed her first commercial program when she was an undergraduate and had grown her business quietly and successfully ever since. It was the reason she could afford to be the best-dressed police officer in the North of England. Merino and Gore-tex was a flea bite on her bank account.
She fell into step alongside Paula. ‘I’m going to have to be extra careful with the company now,’ she said.
‘You worried about Rutherford finding out?’
‘It’s not exactly a secret. But he’s so by-the-book, I don’t see him turning a blind eye.’
‘You do the business in your own time, though. It’s not a conflict.’
Stacey shrugged. ‘There’s an argument that I’m applying knowledge and understanding I acquire from the job.’
‘I’d have thought the knowledge transfer went the other way. But it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you had to quit, would it?’
‘I wouldn’t be bored, that’s for sure. There’s plenty of challenges out there to keep me engaged. But I’d really miss the job.’ She cast a sideways glance at her friend. ‘I’ve never said this before to anyone. But I love that being a cop legitimises poking into other people’s lives. I know I go above and beyond all the time, and theoretically I could carry on doing that if I wasn’t in the job any more. I’ve still got all the back doors open. But I’d have no justification for it.’ She scoffed. ‘That sounds crazy, but it’s the way I was brought up, I guess. Traditional Chinese values. Or something.’
‘Makes sense to me. So let’s just tread warily till we have a better sense of the DCI. We both know there’s often a disconnect between what the brass say and what they do. Once we’re in the thick of it, he might turn as much of a blind eye as Carol.’
‘You heard from her lately?’ Stacey rummaged in one of her pockets and produced a bar of artisanal chocolate. She broke off a couple of strips and handed one to Paula.
‘Mmm, ginger.’ Paula approved. ‘I try to get out there every couple of weeks. Just to see how she’s doing. I feel like the diplomatic mission between North and South Korea. I visit Tony in jail, then I visit Carol in a different kind of prison.’
‘He’s still refusing to see her?’
‘He’s convinced she’s got PTSD. Which, frankly, is a no-brainer. He’s told her, no Visiting Order till she gets treatment for it.’
‘And is she? Getting treatment?’
Paula laughed. ‘Can you imagine asking Carol Jordan that? “So, boss, how’s the PTSD? Are you in therapy yet?” That’d go well.’
‘Reading between the lines, though. Do you think she’s making any progress?’
‘She’s not drinking. Which is amazing, all things considered. But as far as the rest is concerned—’
Whatever Paula was about to say was cut off by a short sharp scream from the woodland to the west. ‘What the fuck?’ she exclaimed.
A wordless cry came next, abruptly cut off. Then the sound of feet crashing through the undergrowth. And Paula was off, dodging through the trees in what she thought was the right direction. Stacey, less practised in direct action, hesitated briefly then set her mouth in a grim line and plunged after her.
Paula pushed on, stopping momentarily to check she was still heading for what sounded like a noisy pursuit. She shifted her orientation and carried on. When the noise stopped abruptly, Paula stopped too, holding up a hand to stop Stacey in her tracks. Then she moved forward as stealthily as possible. In less than a minute, she found herself on the edge of a clearing.
A few metres away, a young
