Brieuc police station. Inside Chief Inspector Gwilym Hughes' cramped office, the air reeked of damp wool and stale coffee, bitter as a bad brew. Grey storm light seeped through a half-curtained window, casting shadows. A neat desk anchored the room, Translucent glass on the left wall showed officers' shadows passing, while an auto door creaked ajar.
Hughes, sharply dressed in his pressed uniform, leaned back in his creaking chair, his weathered face carved with impatience. "This isn't your first slip, Antony," he said, his voice low, slicing through the rain's patter. "You couldn't even grab that little sod who slashed your patrol car's tyres."
Antony stood rigid at attention, his wet boots smearing mud on the linoleum. His jaw tightened, shame prickling his neck. "It won't happen again, sir. I'll get him next time, I swear."
Hughes' eyes narrowed, sharp as the gales howling outside. "Who's on patrol with you tonight, then?"
"Jack Rob, sir," Antony replied, wiping rain from his brow.
"And his girl?"
"With her aunt's, I reckon, aye."
Hughes grunted, his pen tapping a slow, accusing rhythm on the desk. "Sort it right this time, Antony. My patience is thinner, mind."
"Aye, sir", Antony replied.
Antony walked out of Chief Inspector Hughes' office with determination, his wet boots squeaking on the linoleum. Rain hammered the Boulevard St. Brieuc police station, a relentless drumbeat echoing through the open hall beyond. Rows of desks lined the space, each cluttered with papers and flickering lamps, where officers hunched over their assigned tasks—typing reports, murmuring into phones. Antony paused at his own desk, checking his radio with a quick flick, its static crackling faintly. His mind raced—guns, cams, all the gear he'd need for the patrol. No mistakes tonight.
"Where's Jack? It's nearly time," Antony muttered, glancing at his watch.
A nearby officer, slouched at his desk, jerked a thumb toward the locked room. "He's in there, grabbing summat."
In the dim locker room where police belongings were stowed, Jack stood by his locker, tucking his shirt in. At twenty-eight, his youthful face held an innocent glow, a faint smile always lingering, even now. His broad, muscular frame filled the space, strong but not lean. He checked his gear—radio, cuffs, torch—methodically. A photo taped to his locker door caught his eye, him, his wife, and their daughters, Lizy's tiny face beaming. He lingered on it, jaw tight, then shut the locker with a soft click.