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lovers that went wrong. We won’t mention the murder weapon. With any luck we’ll have it wrapped up in a few days.” He scratched the back of his ear. “We are dealing with public perceptions here, Helen. Let’s not turn this into something it isn’t. We’re there to promote the help we are getting from MOCT to solve our outstanding murders. A united approach against gun crime. Keep it positive.”
    Helen fought to keep her reserve. Autopsies were key to a murder investigation. She hated missing it. Just as she inwardly cursed the politics of modern day policing, she recalled the intelligence on Paton. He’d been associated with cocaine supply… How big a player was he? Local intelligence had been quiet for a while. Had he moved further afield? If so, he may have attracted the interest of the area organised crime team. Maybe she could salvage something here - use the meeting with MOCT to glean some background on Paton? It had to be worth a try.
    “I’ll sort it,” she said.
    “Good, see you there.”
    Helen sighed as she watched Jenkins wander back through the main room and disappear from sight. She eased back into her chair and rolled her shoulders, listening to the cartilage in her neck pop and crackle. She was no longer thinking about politics. There was another reason why she hadn’t wanted to attend the MOCT meeting: Detective Inspector Dean Fitzpatrick.
    They met a year ago, on a week’s residential training course in the West Country - ‘The Proceeds of Crime Act’. She recalled Dean entering the room that first morning; his very presence lifted the atmosphere of the group of strangers instantly. Dean possessed that special gift of acknowledging everybody in a group, saying just the right thing at the right time, pressing just the right buttons to make everyone feel special. Coupled with dark, athletically handsome looks and a killing smile, he was infectious.
    After break they were paired together on a syndicate exercise. Initially wary of his charm, Helen couldn’t fail to be pleasantly surprised by his practical, easy nature and impressed with his knowledge of legal application.
    As the day progressed, she slowly peeled her shutters back. Over lunch they discussed sailing. Both Helen’s boys had taken lessons the summer before at Pitsford Reservoir, just outside Hampton. Dean was a keen dinghy sailor. He laughed at her accounts of the boys learning to tack, leaning over the side of the boat to keep the sail upright. Over dinner they discussed family. He explained how he was separated from his wife and talked about his daughter, Lucy.
    By the second day they were studying the role of gambling, money laundering and asset seizures in organised crime by day, and tearing each other’s clothes off by night. He was a generous, tender lover and, when exhausted from sex, they lay and talked, him about his various hobbies of golf, swimming and cooking; she about her family, her boys. She was flattered by his genuine interest in her.
    When the course ended, they exchanged numbers. With Dean in Nottingham, a two hour drive north of Hampton, Helen had been sceptical about a future relationship. The following week he surprised her, by calling and texting most days. On Saturday evening he drove down, took her out for dinner to Georgios beside the canal. She remembered it well: she ate risotto, him cannelloni. It was the first time she’d worn a dress in years and it felt good. Afterwards they’d spent an exhilarating night together in a hotel nearby.
    In spite of the distance between them, the relationship continued on this level for several months. A few hours grabbed here or there between shifts, the odd night together arranged around family commitments. Helen didn’t make a point of dating police officers and they agreed to keep the relationship secret for a while.
    It hadn’t been the first time Helen had been drawn to a man since her late husband, John. She had indulged in a few flings over the last