WPC Lace was tired of seeing all of the bright young things rolling up to the front door of the Mondrian in their stylish 4X4s, wearing their next to nothing dresses that cost more than she earned in six months and shoes that cost the other six months. What she disliked about them most, if she was honest with herself, was that they were having fun and she wasn’t. WPC Lace didn’t care if they had been born with a whole set of silver spoons in their mouths, or if their boyfriends or girlfriends were reality TV stars or football players, if the Doc Martin had been on the other foot she’d be doing what they were doing.
Lace was feeling a little bit testy right now because she’d been on the beat for ten hours, and she was bored. Her calves were on fire too, she’d been breaking in some new shoe
