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Helen drew deeply on her cigarette, inhaling the noxious fumes.

She knew she shouldn’t do it, yet felt compelled to undertake this petty act of rebellion.

She hadn’t sought this situation, didn’t want it, and desperately needed something to calm her nerves.

Once she’d mainlined on pain to drive away her demons, now she favoured nicotine.

Raising her head, she blew out a long trail of smoke, her gaze drifting towards the anonymous office across the road.

A year ago, the National Crime Agency had set up its elite financial tracking unit in Southampton, dozens of highly trained accountants, investigators and online experts working feverishly to track down fraudsters, gangsters and hackers, behind the tinted glass walls.

Helen had never visited their office, indeed it had barely got going by the time she resigned from the Force, but she would break her duck this morning, as she had some surprising news to impart to her lover.

Finishing her cigarette, Helen drew out another, annoyed that the office had not yet opened despite the clock having hit nine o’clock.

She pressed the cigarette to her lips, raising her lighter, but as she did so, she caught the eye of a young girl walking up the street with her mother, dressed smartly in her school uniform.

The expression on the little girl’s face was a picture, curiosity morphing swiftly to disgust, modern society’s view on the evils of smoking clearly having been drilled into her.

Embarrassed, Helen replaced the cigarette before concealing the offending articles in her pocket.

Was she imagining it or did the little girl give a little nod of approval as she passed by, as if congratulating herself on a job well done?

Either way, Helen’s eyes remained glued to her, watching the youngster as she strolled away down the street, hand in hand with her mother.

It was an unremarkable sight, something you witnessed every day of the week, and yet it struck Helen forcibly this morning.

The bond between mother and daughter seemed so simple, so natural, and yet it was something Helen had never experienced.

Her father had beaten her, whilst her mother had neglected her, turning a blind eye to her children’s suffering.

Helen had never received any love or encouragement from her parents, forever the victim of their vices, rather than the beneficiary of their virtues.

She didn’t know what being a mother meant , nor what a healthy parent–child relationship felt like.

Indeed, the only person who had ever looked out for her had been her sister, Marianne, and that had not ended well.

Staring at the mother and child, Helen felt mystified by their bond, or more accurately, terrified by it.

How did you look after them properly? How did you teach them, guide them, chastise them?

Helen had never been given the manual, let alone taught any of the rules, having little in the way of extended family.

Since she was a teenager she had been isolated, abandoned, a lone rock in a swirling river.

Police work had given her a sense of purpose and she had thrived in the safely of its solid, practical constraints.

Yes, her chosen career had often put her in grave danger, but it had also made her, allowing her to flourish in the service of others.

Now that her career was over, was she suddenly supposed to embrace a new path, finding contentment in the role of new mother?

No, it was impossible. Even putting aside the fact that she had no proper role models to emulate, nor any practical experience of parenting, she was far too old.

Following through with the pregnancy could potentially put her life in danger and certainly posed serious dangers to the baby.

It would be selfish to pursue the pregnancy, especially as she had never wanted to be a mother in the first place.

She lived alone in a top-floor flat, was in a fledgling relationship with a man she hardly knew and had no obvious means of financially supporting herself or her family. No, it was madness to even consider it.

And yet the responsibility was not hers alone, hence her visit this morning.

She had no expectation that Christopher would be overjoyed by her news, but she knew she was honour-bound to tell him.

Perhaps it was his fault, perhaps he’d accidentally ripped a hole in the condom, but it was more likely hers, given her failure to take any precautions herself, wrongly assuming that she was too old to conceive.

It was beholden on her now to own her mistake, deliver her bombshell and then try to work out what to do.

Helen thought she knew the answer already, but part of her wanted to hear him say it.

Across the road, a young receptionist had opened the office door to greet a courier, so Helen took this as her cue, crossing quickly and slipping inside.

The foyer was impressive, all granite surfaces and fresh cut flowers, but she didn’t linger to admire the view, marching swiftly up to the front desk.

‘Good morning. Is Christopher Palmer in?’ Helen enquired genially.

‘And your name is?’ the smiling receptionist returned formally.

‘DI Helen Grace.’

Instantly, the receptionist’s expression changed, as recognition took hold.

‘Oh, I see. Is it a professional call then, DI Grace …?’

‘No, it’s personal. Is he in?’

‘Well, yes, but …’

‘Great, I’ll see myself up.’

‘Hold on a minute, you can’t just …’

But Helen was already on the move, swinging a leg over the barrier, before continuing on her way to the lift.

Christopher had often complained to her about his poky second-floor office, so hurrying into the lift, Helen stabbed the button for that floor.

The receptionist was already haring after her, but Helen’s head start proved decisive, the doors kissing shut before she could intercept her.

Moments later, she was striding along the corridor on the second floor, desperately scanning for Christopher’s name plate.

Marching towards her down the corridor was a rosy-cheeked fifty-something man in an overly tight, striped shirt.

‘Christopher Palmer?’ Helen enquired with a smile.

‘Last office on the left. Are you a friend of his or …?’

He was clearly keen to talk, struck by the sight of an athletic woman in biking leathers, but waving her thanks, Helen continued on her way, until she came to the end of the corridor.

Taking in the name plate – Christopher Palmer, Senior Analyst – she took a breath, then after a smart knock, stepped inside.

‘Sorry to burst in on you like this …’

Helen petered out, disappointed to discover that the room was empty.

This was not in the plan at all. Would she even get to see Christopher before she was ejected?

Casting a wary eye out into the corridor, she shut the door gently behind her, retreating inside.

Her lover was not here, but clearly was in the building, his jacket gracing his chair and a cup of coffee steaming on the desk.

There was nothing to do but wait, so cracking her knuckles, she paced the room, taking in the small, but swanky office.

There was clearly more money in financial scams and cybercrimes than in regular policing, the office smartly decorated and impressively appointed.

A glass coffee table nestled by a smart leather three-piece suite, there were well-stocked bookcases on two walls, and a brand-new desk in front of an ultra-modern, ergonomic chair.

Helen bent her steps in that direction now, taking in the large iMac computer, the vase of peonies and next to that a smart, framed photo.

Helen stared at the image, at first confused, then enraged. Christopher was his usual handsome self, beaming with happiness, in an elegant lounge suit, a white carnation in his buttonhole.

And next to him, swathed in reams of bridal lace, was his beautiful wife.