30
I ring work to let them know I’ll be late in. I don’t offer any more information. Sometimes other things have to come first.
When I get to the police station, I’m surprised by how small it seems inside. I imagine there are corridors of back offices and things that I can’t see, but the public-facing area is tiny. It feels clinical, and the counter-to-ceiling bulletproof glass does seem rather drastic.
I pass a piece of paper with my crime reference number through the slot at the bottom of the screen. A grumpy, middle-aged Afro-Caribbean man looks up at me. There are perhaps a dozen desks behind him, with a couple of officers milling around, one or two on the phone.
‘This is my crime reference number,’ I say. ‘I’d like to speak to a detective.’
‘Okay, do you have an appointment?’ the
