"Nice, very nice," Driscoll commented, looking her up and down. "Just the sort of thing that Patterson likes."

Christina tugged uncomfortably at the hem of her top and felt her cheeks redden slightly under his scrutiny. After wandering around the high street for an hour, she had finally selected some clothes that she thought might be appropriate for the job in hand and, upon finally returning to the station, had fled to the ladies toilet to try some of them on. Now, standing in a black leather miniskirt and tight black top in front of two senior male officers, she felt undeniably exposed. If only Stewart could see her at that moment. She wondered if he would be proud or affronted. Would he think she looked good, sexy even, or would he tell her to cover up? Strangely, she found that she wasn't entirely sure of the answer. He often seemed happy to show her off, to drape his arm around her in public and let everyone know that she was his. Other times, like when he had received his last commendation, he had asked her to cover up more.

She had tried to call him at his office, but Harry had somewhat gleefully told her that he was out on enquiries and could he take a message. Not wanting to divulge sensitive information to him, she had declined and, instead, rushed home to leave a hurried note explaining that she was doing some undercover work that night but that she would be back in the morning. She could only hope that he took the news well.

"Don't you think so, Frank?" Driscoll turned Frank. "Scrubs up well, doesn't she?"

"Not bad I suppose," Frank replied, and she briefly met his gaze only for him to look away. For some reason, she had expected more from him. Not in terms of genuine appreciation for how she looked, but rather some sort of cocky remark and, when it didn't come, bizarrely found herself slightly put out.

"Now, to recap…" Driscoll said. "When you get to the club, you'll be met by Ryan, that's our man on the inside. He's expecting you."

"How will I know who I am?"

"You give him your name, Tina."

"Tina?"

"That is a variant of your name, isn't it?"

"Well, yes but…" she paused, suddenly somewhat embarrassed to admit that she had assumed she would be given some complete form of new identity, a name that would make her feel more in character rather than just herself playing dress up. Tina…well, it didn't really quite fit the bill.

"It's best to keep things as close to the truth as possible," Driscoll said, as though reading her mind. "It makes it easier that way than trying to remember a whole bunch of information if you get questioned. As I said, Ryan's expecting you. He'll introduce you to Patterson and then it's up to you to make sure you shine enough to get the job. If you do get it, and you will, you'll start right away."

"Ok."

"Play it close to your chest, no heroics on the first night. Chat to the others, especially the girls if you get the chance, but don't make it look too obvious that you're fishing for information." She nodded. "I've got you a driver, one of our DCs, Ritchie Fairbanks. He's downstairs waiting in a cab. He'll drive you to and from the club every night just to make sure that you're not followed. Wednesday evening, we'll meet here again for an update. Other than that, and any other times I tell you to be here, you stay clear of the nick, understood?"

"Understood," she replied, glancing at Frank again. His jaw was clenched, and she couldn't help but think he looked less than pleased at Driscoll's obvious leadership and control of the situation.

"Good girl. Right then," Driscoll checked his watch. "No time like the present I suppose."

"Give us a second will you Billy," Frank said suddenly.

"We're on a timescale here Frank…"

"Two minutes."

Driscoll looked between them, seemingly none too pleased at the interruption, then nodded impatiently. "Two minutes then."

When he was gone, Frank turned to look at her again. "What did you tell Stewart?"

"Nothing, at least not in person. I couldn't get a hold of him, so I left a note at home."

"Saying what?"

"That I was doing an undercover job tonight, but I'd be back in the morning. Why? Shouldn't I have?"

"No, he needs to know these things. He is your husband after all. Just remember that you can't give him any details, no matter how hard he plays the 'we're all in the same job' card."

"I know. I won't." There was a long moment of silence in which it looked as though he was about to say something else, then stopped himself. "What?"

"Nothing," he replied, looking her up and down. "Just don't get yourself in trouble. Dressed like that, any man might think you were ripe for the taking."

"Any man?" she raised her eyebrows at him.

"Yes," he said, meeting her gaze again. "Any man."

"If that's a chat up line, I think you need to get a new one, Guv."

He smiled then, and gestured to the door, "Go on, get out…and Chris?"

"Yeah?" she turned back to look at him.

"Be careful."

She knew he would say it to anyone on the team going off to do such a job, but the fact that he would say it to her in such a way that suggested he did actually care about what happened to her, made her feel as though, perhaps, the long months of being treated like shit were coming to an end. "I will Guv, I promise."

XXXX

It seemed easier said than done she couldn't help thinking to herself as the taxi drew up in front of the club. Ritchie had seemed all right when he picked her up, though a bit quiet. She had tried to engage him in conversation, but his answers had been somewhat monosyllabic, and she had eventually given up trying and concentrated instead on the passing scenery as they made their way into Hackney. Darkness had started to fall by the time they reached their destination, and she felt a shiver run through her as she made to open the door.

"I'll be waiting when you're done," Ritchie said.

"Ok, thanks."

"Good luck."

Stepping out of the taxi, she slammed the door behind her and turned to look at her new potential temporary place of work. A neon sign above the door proclaimed it to be The Red Room, a name that conjured up all sorts of imagery in her mind. Red – the colour of danger; the colour of passion; red-light area…well she certainly looked and felt like a hooker if nothing else. She stepped forward to the heavy doors and pulled on one side, opening it easily. Immediately, a cloying scent of perfume and cigarette smoke hit her square in the face, making her eyes smart and she had to stop herself from rubbing them and ruining the makeup she had carefully applied in the station toilets. A man stepped forward towards her, tall, dark and well-built, not unattractive to her mind, and eyed her pointedly.

"Name?"

"Tina," she replied. "Tina…Lawson." In that split second, she realised that no surname had been discussed earlier. Using Lewis made it seem too close to home and Church was fairly unusual as to perhaps draw attention to her. Lawson seemed banal enough.

The man looked her up and down and then nodded. "I'm Ryan. Wait here."

She watched as he made his way over to the centre of the room where a man was sitting, smoking profusely, a young woman standing in front of him. Christina watched as the woman turned slowly in front of him, a look of apprehension crossing her face. She couldn't help but think that this woman, a genuine civilian looking for a job, would be well out of it if she herself succeeded the way it was assumed she would. Seconds later, the man clicked his fingers and pointed to the door, clearly dismissing the woman. She watched as Ryan bent and whispered something in his ear before gesturing to her to come over.

Taking a breath, she walked across the floor and stopped where indicated. Ryan stepped back slightly, and she found her gaze meeting that of the main man's, Rod Patterson. He looked to be about fifty, slightly overweight with saggy skin and heavy wrinkles around his eyes no doubt from excessive smoking. He was dressed in what looked to be an expensive suit, his shoes were highly polished, and she could see the looping chain of a gold pocket watch.

"So," he greeted her, "You're Tina."

"Yes."

"Ryan's told me a lot about you. He said I would be a fool not to hire you."

She glanced at Ryan again, at his impassive expression, and couldn't help but think that he was clearly good at his job. "Well, I guess that's a judgement for you to make, sir, isn't it?"

"Sir…" he chuckled. "I like that. Mr Patterson will do." He made a gesture with his hand for her to turn around and she did so slowly, mimicking the actions of her predecessor, acutely aware of his eyes on her, pausing again when she was once more facing him. "Come here." She took a step forward and then stopped. "A bit closer." She stepped forwards again and tried to remain as calm as she could as his eyes raked over her. Deep down, she wanted to run, wanted to bolt for the door and find her way home, back to safety and security, rather than be leered over by someone like Patterson. "Very nice," he said after a moment. "I take it you've worked a bar before."

"Yes."

"Good." He suddenly got to his feet and she found herself surprised by his height towering, as he did, over her. "Well, I'm not one to go against the advice of my most trusted employees," he moved closer to her placing a hand on her waist and running it down and around the curve of her bottom. "I reckon you'll do nicely, my darling. Very nicely indeed."

XXXX

It was almost midnight by the time Frank elected to leave the station. Ordinarily, he would have balked at staying so late for any reason, but the extra time had certainly given him the opportunity to catch up on all the parts of the job that took him away from the streets, took him away from nicking villains. Annual reviews were due soon and he had procrastinated for what seemed like hours over some of them, Ted's being the main one. Sometimes the other man's brilliance and dedication to the job blew him away, other times he seemed hell bent on throwing it all away instead. Eventually, he had written what he thought was fair, and filed it away to pass to Conway. Every so often, he had glanced at the phone on his desk, wondering if it was going to ring and what he would do if it did. No news appeared to be good news. If Christina hadn't managed to convince Patterson to hire her, she would no doubt have been back by this point, an angry Billy Driscoll in tow. The fact that she wasn't, spoke volumes.

He had to admit, she had looked good in the get up she had paraded in front of them. Enough flesh on show to titillate, yet enough still left to the imagination of the viewer. He couldn't help but think that if she dressed a little bit more like that on a day-to-day basis, it would certainly make the working day more enjoyable. Not that he wanted her to know that of course.

Clicking his light off, he lifted his jacket and headed for the stairs, offering good nights to those unlucky enough to be on the nightshift, before emerging out into the chilly night air. As he approached his car, a sense of weariness mixed with hunger washed over him and he was considering whether to grab a kebab on the way home, when he heard the sound of a car door slamming behind him and the hurried crunch of footsteps. Turning, he saw Stewart Church steaming towards him, his expression one of pure fury, and braced himself for the inevitable.

"Where is she?" Stewart demanded.

"Where's who?" he replied, feigning ignorance.

"Who the bloody hell do you think? My wife!" Stewart retorted, holding up a crumped piece of paper. "She left me this note, telling me she was doing undercover work tonight and would be back in the morning!"

"So?"

"So? Undercover work? Christina?" He snorted derisively in a way that pissed Frank off. "I'm guessing this is your doing!"

"It isn't, as it happens," Frank replied. "Though I did give her the go ahead." Stewart paused and frowned. "Your wife's been noticed."

"By whom?"

"I'm sure she'll tell you all about it when she gets back in the morning, at least within the bounds of operational security. I'm sure it won't come as any great surprise to learn that I'm telling you nothing." He made to open the car door, only for Stewart to rush in front of him.

"She's my wife!"

The other man's sense of propriety entitlement irritated him. "So you keep saying. She's also a police officer, and a damn good one at that, no matter what you might think."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me." The memory of the look on Christina's face when she had told him, without really telling him, that Stewart had seemed almost pleased by her failure to pass the sergeants exam almost made him say more than was strictly professional under the circumstances, but he caught himself in time. "She's doing a job for Vice, and that's all I'm saying."

"Vice?" Stewart looked at him incredulously. "Are you telling me that my wife's parading around some street corner pretending to be some kind of whore?"

"I told you, she'll tell you what she can in the morning. Now, would you mind letting me get into my car? I do have a home to go to, you know, as do you."

"I bet you loved letting her go on such an operation. I bet you got a real kick out of looking at my wife dressed like a tart. Tell me something, Burnside, are you going home to think about her?"

Frank paused and stared at him, feeling almost slightly guilty that her husband had guessed that any such thoughts had passed through his mind that evening, only to be replaced by a sense of incredulous surprise that Stewart should think to mention such a thing to his own wife's senior officer. "No," he replied tightly. "And you'd do well to get out of here before you say something you'll regret, Sergeant. Like I said, your wife's a good officer and that's why she was chosen, no other reason."

"Don't make me laugh, Burnside. You don't think she's a good officer. If you did, you wouldn't treat her the way that you do. Oh yes," he nodded, "she might not say much but when she does tell me things, none of them are particularly good. Like how she thought you had been getting on a bit better only for something to happen and you to start treating her like crap again. What did happen? Did you make a pass at her and she turned you down? That sounds like your kind of style."

Frank knew the other man was reaching, drawing conclusions out of nothing, seemingly hellbent on sexualising something that wasn't sexual. Well, not really. And yet it hit a little bit too close to home that he was alluding something not a million miles from the truth. He would have liked nothing more than to punch Stewart's lights out, would gain great satisfaction from seeing him with a bloodied nose or split lip. But then, there was such a thing as professionalism, not to mention disciplinary committees. "Goodnight Sergeant." Climbing into the car, he pulled the door closed and quickly locked it, lest the other man take it upon himself to try and drag him out, something he wouldn't quite put past him.

"You better watch yourself, Burnside," Stewart said, through the closed window. "There's a name for men like you."

"Yeah," Frank muttered, turning on the engine and slamming the gearstick into reverse. "And there's a name for men like you too, pal."

XXXX

By the time the club closed at four am, Christina felt exhausted. Having worked a full day and now, almost a full night, the adrenaline that had originally been coursing through her body had started to wear off and she could barely keep her eyes open. Once she had been given a quick tour of the bar area, the club had opened for business and she had been kept so busy serving drinks that there had been little time to execute any part of her actual mission, namely speaking to the girls. She saw them at regular intervals, lounging in the corners, talking to men at the tables, disappearing into rooms upstairs…some of them looked almost painfully young. There was no way that their customers could have mistaken them for anything more than teenagers. The whole thing angered her, and yet she knew getting angry wasn't the point of being there.

"You've done well love," Patterson said, meandering over to the bar. "Ryan was right. I like how you kept things going, chatting to the customers and the like. It's all about giving them an experience, you know?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good, well then. Same time tomorrow night." Leaning over, he pushed some money down into her bra, the very sensation of his fingers against her skin making her want to vomit.

"Great, thanks." Coming around from behind the bar, she knew that she should try and take the opportunity to talk to some of the others as they all prepared to leave, but the reality of how tired she was made it almost impossible. With a quick wave in their direction, she headed for the door, gratified to see Ritchie waiting for her outside.

"How was it?" he asked, as she flopped into the backseat.

"Great," she murmured, trying to keep herself awake as he traversed the route to her home, taking so many twists and turns that she had no reasonable idea where she was until he pulled up outside. "Thanks" she said, climbing.

"I'll be here tomorrow at seven-thirty," he said.

She nodded her understanding and turned back to the house, sighing at the light she could see coming from the living room window. Any hope she might have had of sneaking inside and straight into bed were about to be dashed. Opening the front door, she immediately heard the sound of the radio being clicked off and seconds later Stewart appeared, framed in the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest, his expression about as far removed from someone who was about to be supportive of what she was doing as it was possible to be.

"Right then," he said, his voice tight. "Where the bloody hell have you been?"