Stephen Leather: Tango One

"I get the picture, Ray. I even get the duck analogy. But what do you want from me? From the Met?"

Mackie took a deep breath and turned to look at the Assistant Commissioner.

"Virgins," he said, quietly.

"We need virgins."

Jamie Fullerton gritted his teeth as he pounded along the pavement on the last leg of his two-mile run. He was barely sweating and knew that he had the stamina to run for at least another hour, but he had nothing to prove. If it had been the weekend he might have pushed himself harder, but it was Monday, the start of a new week. The start of a new life. He looked left and right and dashed across the King's Road, heading for his basement flat in Oakley Street. London wasn't the most convenient place in the world for an early-morning run, but Fullerton couldn't abide the clinical efficiency and mechanical contraptions of a health club. Fitness was a way of life to him; it had nothing to do with spending an hour on an exercise bike reading the FT and listening to the latest Simply Red CD.

He increased the pace as he turned into Oakley Street and sprinted the last hundred yards, then stood stretching as he held on to the black railings at the top of the stairs that led down to his flat. A blonde in a smart pale green suit carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase flashed him a dazzlingly white smile and he grinned back.

"Looking good," she said, then she was gone, heading for South Kensington Tube station.

Fullerton had seen her three times during the past week and had the feeling that she was deliberately timing her journey to coincide with his return from his run. He'd noticed the wedding ring on her finger the first time he'd seen her, but her smiles were getting wider and there was a definite swing to her hips as she walked away. She was pretty enough, but she was in her early thirties, probably a decade his senior, and Fullerton had long since passed through the stage of being attracted to older women.

He went down the metal steps to his front door and let himself in. The flat had a minimum of furniture: two simple grey sofas facing each other either side of a coal-effect gas fire, a low coffee table made from some dark veneer that hadn't been within a mile of a genuine tree, and a sideboard which was bare except for an inoffensive African wood carving that he would have thrown out if it hadn't been high up on the list of the landlord's inventory that he'd had to sign when he'd taken on the lease.

Fullerton stripped off his tracksuit top and tossed it on to the sofa by the window before dropping on to the beige carpet and doing his daily one hundred and twenty sit-ups. He was sweating by the time he finished, but his breathing was still regular and though his abdominal muscles ached he knew that he was nowhere near his limit.

He walked through to the bathroom, which was as utilitarian as the sitting room, and showered before going into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. On the back of the bedroom door a dark blue uniform with silver buttons hung on a wooden hanger. He picked up the hanger and grinned at the uniform.

"A fucking cop," he chuckled to himself.

"Who'd've believed it?"

He tossed the uniform on to the bed. The helmet with its gleaming silver emblem of the Metropolitan Police was on the dressing table and Fullerton picked it up. He placed it on his head and adjusted the chin strip. It was heavy but it sat firmly on his head. He turned to look at his reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe. He stopped grinning and snapped to attention, then slowly saluted.

"Evening all," he said. He flexed his biceps, then stepped into a bodybuilder's pose. His towel slid to the floor and he grinned at his naked reflection.

He jumped as his doorbell rang, and his face flushed involuntarily as he realised how ridiculous he looked, naked except for a policeman's helmet.

He put the helmet on the bed next to the uniform, wrapped the towel around his waist and rushed down the hallway to the front door. He opened it, expecting to see the postman, but instead was faced with a man in his thirties wearing a dark blue blazer and grey slacks, like a holiday rep preparing to greet a planeload of holiday makers.

"James Fullerton?" asked the man, his face a blank mask as if he didn't care either way whether or not he was.

"Yes?" said Fullerton hesitantly.

"There's been a change of venue," said the man.

"And you are?"

"The man who's been sent to take you to the new venue," he said without a trace of humour. He was holding a set of car keys in his right hand.

His shoes were as highly polished as the pair that Fullerton kept in the bottom of his wardrobe. Policeman's shoes.

"Look, I'm supposed to be at Hendon at eight thirty," said Fullerton.

"The police college."

"I know what Hendon is, sir," said the man in the blazer.

"You're to come with me instead."

"Do you have a letter or something?"

"No," said the man coldly.

"No letter."

Fullerton looked at the man. The man returned his look with total impassivity as he clasped his hands together over his groin and waited patiently. It was clear that he wasn't going to divulge any further information.

"Right," said Fullerton.

"Let me get dressed." He started to close the door.

"The uniform won't be necessary, sir." Fullerton stopped closing the door.

"Excuse me?"

"The uniform. It won't be necessary." Fullerton frowned.

"What do I wear, then?" The man in the blazer leaned forward as if about to whisper conspiratorially.

"Frankly, sir," he said, "I couldn't give a fuck." Fullerton closed the door and stood in the hallway with his head in the hands wondering what the hell was going on. His application to join the Metropolitan Police had been accepted three months earlier, and the letter telling him when to report to Hendon had arrived shortly afterwards. The sudden change of plan could only be bad news.

Cliff "Bunny' Warren poured a slug of milk over his Shredded Wheat, dumped on two heaped spoonfuls of brown sugar and carried the bowl over to the Formica table in the corner of his kitchen. He wrapped his dressing gown around himself, propped up a textbook against the wall and read as he ate. Reforming Social Services. The content of the book was as dry as the cereal straight from the packet, but Warren knew that it was required reading. He was already behind in his Open University reading and had a stack of videos next to the television that he still had to watch.

The doorbell rang, three sharp blasts as if whoever was ringing was in a hurry. Warren put down his spoon and walked slowly down the hallway.

He put the chain on the door before opening it. The part of Harlesden he lived in was home to an assortment of drug addicts and petty thieves who wouldn't think twice about kicking down a door, beating him senseless and taking what few possessions he had. His upstairs neighbour, a widower in his seventies, had been broken into six times in the past two years.

A white man in a dark blue blazer smiled through the gap.

"Clifford Warren?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I've a car waiting for you, sir."

Warren's brow furrowed as he opened the door further. Parked in the street a few doors away was a brand new Vauxhall Vectra that was already attracting the attention of two West Indian teenagers.

"You don't want to leave it there," warned Warren.

"Not if you want to see your radio again."

The man took a quick look over his shoulder.

"Thanks for the tip, sir," he said.

"I'll wait with the vehicle."

"Does every new recruit get this treatment?" asked Warren.

"You're a bit of a special case, I'm told, sir," said the man, adjusting his red and blue tie.

"I've been told to tell you that the uniform won't be necessary."