I was on the front desk one lunchtime, a sunny day near the end of my time on the squad; the breeze floating in through the open window smelled like country air, like the summer had thrown off all the layers of city to come cartwheeling in clean and sweet. I was listening to bouncy nineties pop trailing out of a sunroof, eating a turkey sandwich, thinking about that morning’s happy ending—ten-year-old disappeared after a fight with his parents, we found him playing Nintendo in his best mate’s bedroom—and about Murder waiting for me just a couple of weeks away. It felt like we were on the same
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