Melissa tutted. “In my bag, sir.”
“Then put it on, please.”
“Yes, sir. Just had netball.” The girl ruffled in her bag, then flicked her tie around her neck.
When the corridor cleared, Jude looked back up, meeting Warren’s eyes again as if nothing had happened. “So. The quiz team?”
“How do I get in?”
“By proving your general knowledge.”
Warren spread his arms. “Sports buff.”
“That’s one round. There are ten.”
He leaned in, dropping his voice enough to filter into Jude’s space. “I binge reality TV. The tackier, the better.”
Something glimmered in Jude’s eyes. Surprise. Amusement. Maybe more. And then a small laugh escaped him. “Alright. You’re in. We’ve been lacking a specialist in trash TV.” He then scribbled something on the edge of a worksheet and slid it across.Dog and Duck. Seven tonight.
Warren tucked the paper into his pocket. “See you there, History.”
Jude turned, and Warren found himself watching him walk away with his smile fixed. And that was concerning. He blinked out of it, forcing himself back into the moment, and pulled out his phone. Not the regular one. The sterile, encrypted one reserved for personal observation. He needed to log this before the ease of it took root.
Data Point One:Jude Ellison.
Observation: Accepted social invitation (Dog and Duck, 7 PM). Subject demonstrated unexpected ease and genuine humour when engaging with theMr Baileypersona. Connection established under false pretence of “trash TV specialist.” Risk Assessment: High. Unnecessary social contact. Deviation from surveillance-only protocol. Must maintain distance. Objective remains: assess ties to Callum Reid, not initiate personal relationship.
He pocketed the phone. The slip of paper was still warm in his hand.Dog and Duck, seven tonight.He forced a professional chill back into his spine. No. It was an operational meet. Nothing more. If he let theamusement, maybe morein Jude’s eyes take hold, he wouldn’t be DS Beckford anymore.
He’d be a man in a town where he didn’t belong.
And that was the quickest way to end up dead.
* * * *
He repeated that lie again later that night, standing before the bathroom mirror, smoothing a thin layer of moisturiser into the stubble along his jaw. This was an opportunity to observe Ellison in a social setting. Professional. Operational.
Not personal.
He gathered his locs into a high band, then released half of them, letting a few strands fall loose. Casual, but not careless. The kind of effort that looked effortless. Then from the counter, he picked up the aftershave he’d bought at the local Boots. A cheap, citrus-heavy stand-in for the one he’d left behind in London. The scent clung too bright, too sharp, not him. But maybe that was the point. Maybe he needed to smell like someone else tonight.
Too much of himself was in this op already.
Stepping back from the mirror, he straightened his shirt, checking the fit where the fabric stretched across his chest. Enough to suggest, not to show. Blending. Playing the part. PE teacher. Quiet. Confident. Trustworthy. He leaned closer again, searching his reflection for cracks. Anything that might give him away. The mission. The conflict.
Theotherthing.
Behind him, the bathroom door creaked open.
“Didn’t hear you come in.” He didn’t take his eyes off his reflection.
“Not like you to miss someone creeping up.” Naomi stepped into frame, folding herself onto the toilet lid as if it were her office chair. She crossed her legs, giving him a leisurely once-over.
Warren kept still. Allowed it.
“Who’re we impressing?” she asked.
“Just fitting in with the staff.”
