I pecked Rob over the breakfast table and left for work, shooting him a smile when I reached the kitchen door. He puts up with a lot; late nights, early starts, the general stress of having a workaholic wife. I’m a detective for the Metropolitan Police, which is a lot less sexy than it sounds. Budget cuts mean that instead of spending quality time with my husband I work all hours doing the mindless paperwork that would have been done by office staff a few short, Tory years ago. Not that I’m bitter, where was I? Ah yes, the day of the incident in question.
I kissed Rob and flew out of the door onto a bus, falling straight into my standard Miami Vice daydream as I held onto the greasy overhead rail. The fat orange sun was still low between the buildings, drenching everything in an almost Floridian tangerine glow. I wasn’t in a white Ferrari though, and instead of healthy tans I was surrounded by pasty Anglo-Saxon office worker whites and pinks. Jostled off the bus, I made my way through the automatic doors and up the escalator, the golden glow of the sun filtered to a murky green through the toughened glass.