I'd only been in the Met a few weeks when I got my first opportunity of 'going under'. There'd been an outbreak of thefts from nail bars and someone needed to look closer. I wasn't picked for my skills or expertise – it was because I was the only woman on the team. There was a lot of piss taking from my male colleagues but a steely glance from the super, a woman clearly picked for her skills and expertise, knocked that on the head. The pampering in the nail bars was nice but I was starting to run out of excuses why I needed my nails doing again. In the fourth place I saw a face I had seen in all the others. A man, out of place amongst all the women, apparently checking out power cables. I collared him and found his bag was full of cash and purses. The super was pleased, but the next undercover job wasn't as glamourous – dodgy dealings in the abattoir. Where's my hand cream?
Writing short fiction, monologues and plays