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would make it real? And what did that mean? That she didn’t want it? Or did? And how many more stupid questions couldn’t she answer? Ah, but she could. Trouble was the answers changed every time.
    She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Oz had a right to know. But did she want that complication? Would he? They’d been a good team while it lasted, partners on and off the job, carnal knowledge and criminal. But her erstwhile DC was now a sergeant in the Met. Oz had moved on. And she’d been happy to let him go. Hadn’t she? So why dream about getting hitched? And what was with the hearse?
    Eyes open, ears pricked, she breathed, “Yes! Thank you, God.” Then banished every thorny thought for the thousandth time, as she reached for the landline. A ringing phone was one thing she could always answer.
    A call-out to the Churchill estate was as welcome as bird flu on a turkey farm in advent. So how come DC Mac Tyler was chirpier than a sparrow? Slumped in the passenger seat, Bev cast a grumpy glance at her partner. Surely that level of perkiness was abnormal at this time in the morning? Not that it would last. Still a relative newbie, Mac was about to experience his first slice of life on the Churchill. That should bring him down to earth with a bump. Or maybe not. Bev cut him another glance. Mac’s glass was never half-empty; he was a man with a perpetually full magnum. She reckoned it was down to his stand-up comedy. In the little spare time the job left, he was a regular on the amateur circuit. Not that he was joking as they exited the inner ring road.
    “Caught some guy red-handed, apparently, boss. Uniform played a blinder. Gibbo kept him talking. Hawkeye disarmed him. Perp put up a hell of a fight, according to control.” Mac’s warm brown eyes checked the mirror as he indicated a right.
    “Great.” Distracted, Bev shifted her bum, subtly loosened the belt on her denim boot-cuts. Given her entire working wardrobe was blue, she could and often did dress in the dark. Shouldn’t have grabbed this pair though, they were beginning to pinch.
    “You OK?” Mac’s bemused glance flicked back to the road.
    “Hunky. This perp then? Got a name? Any form?” She scanned the nightlife, or lack of. The streets were dead, roads deserted. Not that they were in a hurry, or she’d be driving. But the body wasn’t going anywhere, and the case looked cut and dried: the suspect was cooling his heels back at the nick, uniform had secured the scene, the SOCO guys were on the way, ditto the pathologist. She and Mac would be on site to ensure procedures were carried out, the gathering and handling of evidence, organising door-to-door, usual plod work. Yawn.
    Mac shrugged a dunno to both Bev’s queries, his speech now temporarily restricted by a mouthful of sausage roll. She sniffed. God, it smelt good. Having reluctantly downed a virtuous banana before Mac picked her up, she now flapped a half-share away and shot him a Morriss look. This one was from the mad-fool shop. Oblivious, Mac scarfed another bite. Bev puckered her lips. Guy was a fool to himself, really. With all the extra weight, he could body double for Danny de Vito. Not the legs – Mac’s were too long. She watched a couple more inches of cholesterol disappear down her DC’s neck. Couldn’t be doing a bunch of good at his age. He’d not see fifty again; way he was going he’d be lucky to see sixty at all. And that’d be a shame, cause she had a soft spot for Tyler, even though he dressed like a lumberjack in a Lovejoy wig.
    Her fingers tapped a beat on her knee. “Shouldn’t eat when you’re driving anyway. Cops should set an example.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Very Uriah Heep. Pity it didn’t match the facial inflexion.
    She sniffed. “Stick like that if the wind changes, mate.”
    Mac muttered something about rattled cages, but didn’t finish the food. Bev saw him slip it back into a Gregg’s bag. She felt a tad mean; shouldn’t really take it out on