The Rebel: The new crime thriller that will have you gripped in 2018. Jaime Raven

a point of telling me that, because my first six months on the job coincided with a relentless wave of negative publicity for the police.

      Corruption within the Met was being exposed on an almost weekly basis, and a lot of new recruits like myself became disillusioned.

      But for me the scandals served only to strengthen my commitment and my resolve to be a good, honest copper like my father.

      It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been aware that the Met in particular was infested with officers who were on the take. While at university a report was published that claimed there’d been a sharp increase in the number of officers dealing in drugs and abusing their power for ‘sexual gratification’.

      I’d since discovered myself that the force did indeed have its share of bad apples, but most officers walked a straight line and were a credit to the profession.

      Of course, being above board and serving with distinction did not make it less likely that you’d come to harm in the line of duty. My father found that out the night he opened his front door to a man who shot him three times in the chest.

      Seven years on – with the killer still out there somewhere – the memory moves me to tears and gives rise to a blast of anger.

      It’s only about two miles from the Old Bailey to New Scotland Yard. But the traffic was murderous so it was slow going in Kate’s pool car.

      She took us via the Victoria Embankment and there was gridlock for much of the way.

      We were passing under Waterloo Bridge when my mobile rang. It was Aidan.

      ‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘I just heard it on the news. You must be pleased.’

      ‘I’m over the moon,’ I said. ‘We all are, which is why we’re going to the pub for a celebration drink.’

      ‘You deserve it, hon. Have a great time.’

      ‘Are you home already?’

      ‘No, I’ve only just left the school. I’ll grab a takeaway. Do you want me to get something for you?’

      ‘No, don’t worry. I’ll sort myself out.’

      Aidan was a teacher and worked in a big comprehensive near our home in Balham. We’d been together for four years, having been introduced by my matchmaking mother who was one of his colleagues.

      ‘I’ll see you when I see you then,’ Aidan said. ‘And try not to get too tipsy. There’s still a big stain on the carpet from the last time you rolled in drunk.’

      I laughed and told him that I loved him, then put the phone back in my shoulder bag.

      ‘From the sound of it, things are still great on the home front,’ Kate said.

      I nodded. ‘It couldn’t be better. We’re a good match, and thankfully Aidan’s pretty understanding about all the unsocial hours and stuff.’

      ‘You’re lucky. I’ve come to the conclusion that good men are a dying breed.’

      Kate had been bitter and cynical about men ever since I’d known her, but I had some sympathy. Her marriage came to a brutal end after only two years when she found her husband – a fellow detective working at the same station – in bed with another woman, for whom he promptly left her.

      What compounded her suffering and humiliation was the fact that most of their colleagues had known he’d been having an affair for months and no one had told her.

      But the sorry saga did not end there. Two months after walking out, her husband died in an accident outside his new home when he was struck by a car that mounted the pavement. So grief was suddenly added to Kate’s emotional burden.

      ‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ I asked tentatively.

      She shook her head. ‘I was going out with a bloke until a couple of weeks ago. He was some kind of financial adviser, and that was the problem. He kept trying to get me to part with money. When he said he could double my savings I realised he was a wrong ’un and told him to sod off.’

      I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, but then it was a familiar story. I knew a couple of other middle-aged women who’d had similar experiences on the dating scene.

      ‘I made the mistake of telling that lech Tony Marsden that I was single again,’ Kate said. ‘And he had the cheek to ask me if I wanted to go out for a drink with him.’

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘I told him that I wasn’t that bloody desperate and that he should be ashamed of himself.’

      I grinned. ‘I’m sure he’s heard that before.’

      ‘Maybe so, but the slimy toerag then said I didn’t know what I was missing.’

      We both laughed and I went on to tell her about how Marsden tried it on with me at the last Christmas do.

      ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t by far the worst of a bad bunch,’ I said.

      Tony Marsden was another of the detective sergeants on the team. He was an opinionated prick who despite being married with a young son was known to play away with anyone who’d have him, including prostitutes.

      It was no secret that he was addicted to gambling as well as illicit sex, and he had always struck me as a pretty dodgy character, the kind of copper my dad would have hated working with.

      And it was just our rotten luck that Marsden should arrive at the Rose and Crown at the same time we did, after Kate had dropped off the pool car.

      He was a squat, bullish man in his late thirties, with a florid complexion and fair hair that was as short as putting-green grass.

      When he saw us approaching, he opened the door to the saloon bar and treated us to one of his lascivious smirks.

      ‘Evening, ladies,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ll both be on your best behaviour. If not then I can assure you that it won’t be a problem, at least with me.’

      ‘Grow up, for pity’s sake,’ I said as I brushed past him, noting that his suit carried the heavy stench of cigarette smoke.

      Inside it looked like the start of a boy’s night out, which was usually the case when the team got together socially. That was because Kate and I were two of only four women among the twenty detectives.

      One of the others was Janet Dean, who was the same rank as me. She was already at the bar and waved when she spotted us.

      Janet was in her late forties, and it was fair to say that she was the most unpopular member of the team. She was a miserable bitch most of the time and rarely attended social functions. When she did she tended to drink too much and slag people off.

      ‘So what’s your tipple, girls?’ she said as we approached the bar. ‘The booze is on the house so we might as well get stuck in.’

      Her thin face was flushed and there was a wet patch on the front of her cream blouse. It was obvious she had already downed a few glasses of something.

      I opted for a gin and tonic, and Kate had a white wine.

      ‘I’m surprised you’ve graced us with your presence, Janet,’ Kate said. ‘I can’t remember the last time you joined us for a drink.’

      Janet lifted her shoulders and eyebrows at the same time.

      ‘It’s a special occasion,’ she said. ‘And besides, Ethan is spending a couple of days in Brighton working on the boat so I’ve got no reason to rush home.’

      That was the other thing that people didn’t like about Janet Dean. She too often boasted about how well off she and her husband were. They lived in a town house in Chelsea, owned two BMWs, and their latest acquisition was a cabin cruiser that was moored in Brighton marina.

      Of course, their lifestyle wasn’t funded by her copper’s salary.