When Troy got back to his office in Scotland Yard, a tall, impossibly young, young man with the palest blue eyes he’d ever seen was snogging a uniformed WPC in front of his desk.
The woman blushed red, smoothed down her skirt and dashed past him. The man straightened his old Etonian tie, stuck out his hand, a smile on his lips, as though nothing had happened and said, ‘Jack Wildeve. You must be Sergeant Troy.’
Troy did not take the hand so proffered. Silently he cursed Onions that his revenge should be to stick him with an English public school, totty-chasing twerp. He was going to hate this bloke. He knew it in his bones.