Her voice was tight with strain as she returned yet another answer in this tedious sequence. ‘After eight months touring India, he will be acclimatized to this heat.’

‘Well, that’ll do for our review of the papers,’ Joe said, and fell silent.

In pursuit of his brief he began to pace about the room again, noting for the record, in what he hoped was an unobtrusive fashion, her height, weight and general deportment. He was relieved to see he’d remembered correctly the trim figure, the modest height. He couldn’t be sure about the face. With the downcast eyes and the large-brimmed hat, she could have been anybody.

A closer inspection was now essential. He went to perch on the front edge of his desk, eyes on a level with hers, improperly close. This overbearing male behaviour was calculated to disturb, to test the subject’s mettle. It was a crude ploy he’d had much success with in the interrogation of male prisoners, military and civilian. The scar skewed his face and Joe had learned to use the sardonic twist with its suggestion of pain survived to intimidate his subjects. He’d noticed that even the tough nuts were unable to hold his eye. Their gaze faltered and slid to one side. They began to fidget and tell him their lies with less confidence.

If the girl ran whimpering from the room or kicked him in the shins at this point, he wouldn’t blame her but that would have to be the end of it.

She responded by staring calmly at a spot on his tie, a slight twist of disdain on her lips.

Perfect.

‘Now then, Miss Wentworth … er, Lilian? That your given name?’

‘I’m usually called just Lily, sir. By those who know me. “Constable” by those who don’t.’

His scrutiny had been over close and over long. And perhaps it was unfair to expose her to blood-spatter and bristle at this hour of the morning. When she caught him inspecting her feet he muttered: ‘Those boots are a disgrace. Not your fault. Poor quality leather. Won’t take a polish. The men wouldn’t put up with them for two minutes. I’ll have a word in the right ear.’

‘It will go straight out through the left, I’m sure, but thank you for the thought, sir.’

Was the tone rebellious? Joe frowned. Not yet. Just this side of acceptable. He’d push her further. He peered playfully under her brim, questioning. She went on looking straight ahead, impassive.

‘Why don’t you sit down? I don’t want to conduct this interview standing. We may be here some time.’

She sank uneasily on to a chair.

‘You’re smaller than I remembered,’ he remarked.

‘Tall enough to satisfy the height requirement.’

Joe picked up a pencil and scratched a note for himself: 5′6″?

‘And younger.’

‘I lied about my age. Sir.’

A swift glance into the unblinking, innocent eyes told him she was certainly lying now. Personal details of recruits were meticulously checked. Joe knew when he was being needled. He wrote again, taking his time: 26, could pass for 18. Insubordinate?

‘And your weight, miss? You would appear to be … er … not exactly well covered in the flesh department.’

He’d clearly touched a nerve at last. The nostrils flared and her voice when she replied was glacial: ‘After eight years of privation, sir, are we surprised? There’s been a war on.’

He scribbled: Skinny. Insubordinate! ‘Look – remove your hat, will you?’

She took off her hat and placed it on her lap.

Joe stared at her hair in surprise. ‘Always interesting to see what you’re hiding under those domes. Glad to see it’s just a dolly-mop of hair and not a bomb.’ He glanced again at her thick bob and scribbled a note on a pad. ‘Tell me – again for the record – how would you describe the colour of your hair? Blonde?’

‘Say straw, sir. If it could possibly be of any interest to anyone.’

Joe thought Miss Wentworth’s shining flaxen hair would interest any man. He busied himself for an annoying moment or two, unconvincingly jotting a further note: Hair – fair, fashionably cut. Brows and lashes darker. Green? eyes. V. pretty … and cut himself short.

He was making a pig’s ear of this.

Should he have delegated the unwelcome task to his super? To his Branch man? Joe reassured himself by remembering both men’s lack of experience with the fair sex and their declared antagonism to the Working Woman. No, neither officer could have gone one round with this sample. He was becoming increasingly certain his choice was a good one. He just had to make the right approaches.

He settled back in his chair, trying for friendly and approachable. ‘Now, before I tell you why you’re here …’ he indicated the file with her number on the cover, ‘I’d like to congratulate you on your prompt and decisive action at the station. I’ve entered a commendation on your file. Would you like me to read it out for you?’

‘Thank you. Very good of you, sir. I’ll take it as read.’ And, sweetly: ‘I’m sure my commanding officer could have passed that on and saved you the trouble.’

And, of course, she was right. A man of his rank didn’t concern himself with the actions, however creditable, of a lowly policewoman.

‘Quite. But I did have, you will recall, a personal interest in the episode. And I’m the chap, for the moment, in charge of hiring, firing and redeployment, not your CO. Redeployment, Wentworth. Which brings me to the second reason for calling you in.’

She startled him by leaping to her feet, triggered, Joe thought, by the word ‘redeployment’. With automatic good manners he rose also, registering surprise.

‘I know what you’re up to. Before you proceed with this, sir, I have to tell you that I will not accept redeployment. I will not be sent to some northern city with the likes of Constable Halliday.’ Her eyes narrowed to a glare. ‘Nor will I stand here and be sacked.’

Joe listened in astonishment as she forged on: ‘This would seem to be a bad moment for both of us. I’m leaving now to go away and write out my resignation from the force. It will be on your desk within the hour. It will make mention of the impossibility of suffering any longer the prejudice and arrogance the women are confronted with at every turn. To say nothing of the low pay and the long hours. And the questionable company of tarts, drug fiends and corrupt coppers.’

She must have been aware that her words sounded undignified. Pre-prepared words, he guessed, that she’d been mulling over and getting together while she’d been sitting in the corridor expecting dismissal. Well, the girl showed some spirit and he wasn’t looking for a doormat. He decided to take her insubordination on the chin.

She hurried to finish, eager to be away. ‘I’m sorry, sir … not the Ciceronian speech I’d planned. A bit light on concessive clauses and qualifying phrases.’

‘And possibly charm, Constable?’ he teased.

‘It’ll have to do. You must excuse me. Good day to you, Commander. I’ll leave you to your sorrows and … more demanding concerns.’

Petulant, foot-stamping stuff. Good girl. But it was decidedly inconvenient for him. Joe began to think he’d mishandled the whole thing. He’d allowed her to provoke him. He’d certainly raised her hackles and now they risked losing her. In what looked very like a rush of light-headed recklessness, she turned without waiting for his dismissal and made for the door.

His voice, lazily enquiring, snaked after her, catching her by the ankle, staying her step. ‘Don’t you want to hear what became of the children in the case?’

It seemed he’d come up with the one formula that would have stopped her from leaving the room. She hesitated.

‘And the villain whose head you sat on? Were you aware you broke his nose? Resume your seat and hear me out. That’s better,’ he said as she settled on the edge of the seat. ‘Ah! Here’s our tea. Put it on the desk, will you, Jones? Thank you, that’ll be all.’ He heaved a layer of files and boxes on to the floor to accommodate the tea tray, then he took up the pot and filled two cups. ‘Drop of milk, one sugar, I understand? You always pay for it. And these are your favourite biscuits. Do have one.’