One year later I stood in front of my commanding officer. ‘I want to be in SO10,’ I said.

He raised his eyes heavenward. ‘They are a bunch of wannabe gangsters.’

That and all further arguments swayed me none at all. SO10 in my opinion was the pinnacle, the elite.

The very next day I made my way to New Scotland Yard carrying a docket of twenty-five pages of forms that I had painstakingly filled in and signed. I had made particular mention of the fact that I could speak Chinese, Norwegian, and my BA was in the Russian language.

On an upper floor, down a narrow, faceless corridor, I found a stable-style door with the magic words SO10 printed on a tiny sticker the size of a matchbox. Male voices and raucous laughter could be heard from within.

I took a deep breath—I had worked so hard and so long to get to this moment—and knocked on the top half of the door. There was no let-up to the mirth and voices within so I was startled when the top half of the door suddenly swung open.

Facing me was a bully of a man: close cropped red-brown hair, a navy blue North Face sweatshirt, gold sovereign rings on every finger, and an insufferably arrogant what-the-fuck-do-you-want expression on his face. It changed when he clocked me, though. In a totally leisurely and insulting way his gaze mentally undressed me. Eventually, his eyes traveled back to meet mine.

‘The ladies’ toilets are not on this floor, petal,’ he advised, a patronizing smirk curling his lip.

‘I…ah… I’ve brought my application form,’ I stammered. I had never imagined such a blatantly sexist brush-off.

Reddish eyebrows flew upwards with exaggerated surprise. ‘Yeah?’

I clutched my application form tightly and nodded.

‘Give it to me, then,’ he said. There could be only one way to describe his expression: highly amused.

He opened it and let his eyes run down it, sniggering and laughing intermittently. When he looked up his face was serious. ‘Right then. You can go now.’

‘Um… Someone will call me?’

‘No doubt,’ he said, in a tone that implied the opposite, and rudely closed the door in my face.

For a second I was too stunned to move and simply stood there. I heard him move into the room and say, ‘You will not believe the skirt that just dropped this off.’

He must have then showed them my photo because the room broke out in low whistles and totally inappropriate comments. One guy said, ‘Call a doctor, I think I’ve just caught yellow fever.’ The group erupted in laughter. My face flamed.

Then a voice, more raspy and authoritative than all the others, said, ‘Give that to me.’ Later I would learn that his name was Mills—Detective Sergeant Mills.

Silence descended while he studied my form. I held my breath.

‘Well, well,’ Mills’ voice pronounced mysteriously. ‘Looks like we found the mouse to catch our lion.’

I turned away and ran down the stairs, my heart pounding like crazy. I knew then: I was going to be a UCO. But at that time I never thought about the logistics of the crazy idea of sending a mouse to catch a lion. I was just ecstatic: I was going to become an SO10 undercover officer.

Two days later I got a withheld number phone call from a woman administrator who said, ‘You have been selected to join the SO10 team. Are you available to come in tomorrow?’

I gulped. Was I available? Bloody hell. ‘Yes,’ I replied smartly.

* * *

And just like that I was back at the stable door. This time, though, I had dressed conservatively in black tailored trousers, a white shirt that was buttoned close to the throat and a gray, loosely fitting jacket. My hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and I wore no make-up. After the last visit I knew what I was in for. And I was not wrong.

The brute who had laughed at my application form came toward me. ‘Get us some tea, will ya? Black, no sugar,’ he said, as he passed me by.

I didn’t miss a beat. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to indicate somewhere at the back.

I nodded. ‘Anybody else want tea?’

There were two other guys there. Both had the same macho attitude.

‘I’ll have mine with milk and no sugar,’ said one leaning back in his chair and stretching.

‘Black. One sugar,’ said the other without looking up from a book he was reading.

I nodded. No one was wearing name tags so I had no idea who anybody was and no one seemed inclined to introduce me.

I went into the kitchen, a small area with a microwave, toaster, a small fridge and a kettle. I found tea, sugar and milk, and from the back of a cupboard a tea-stained tray.

Just as I finished serving the men, another man walked in.

‘Jolly good, tea. I’ll have a cup, love. Two sugars and plenty of milk.’

I walked to the kitchen fuming, but my expression remained as cool as a cucumber.

I fixed the tea and put it in front of the man.

He waved vaguely toward some filing cabinets. ‘How about putting some order into that fucking mess over there?’

‘Right,’ I said and walked toward it. He was right. It was a fucking mess. I decided to take all the files out and start from scratch.

‘Come on,’ a big, shaven-headed white man said as he walked past me. I recognized his voice. The man with the authority. I quickly jumped up and followed him into a small office.

‘Close the door,’ he said, as he lowered himself into his chair.

I obeyed. You could tell he had a hair-trigger temper just by looking at the tension in his shoulders. In fact, he reminded me of a standard issue brutish gangster.

‘Sit.’

I sat.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Great,’ I said.

Something flicked very quickly across his eyes. ‘Nice one. Off you go, then.’

Sorely disappointed, I stood up, thanked him and walked out of his office. I closed the door and another tough-looking guy walked in through the stable door.

‘I’m gasping for some tea and toast,’ he said, looking me right in the eye.

That morning I made twenty rounds of tea between bouts of ‘administrative’ work while they sat around regaling each other with tales of their bravery and the times when they had narrowly and heroically escaped death through relying purely on their wits. It became quickly obvious to me that the fastest way to gain their respect was to administer some sort of violence.

And the next day the routine was the same: round upon round of tea and toast and having to listen to their misogynistic and snide comments. But my grandmother had taught me, when you live in a lake you don’t antagonize the crocodiles.

I was determined to stick it out and live in that infested lake. They were not going to break me. I was there for a reason and all those thinly veiled attempts to provoke me were not going to get a rise out of me. Although the atmosphere was macho, intimidating, and openly contemptuous of the rest of the police force, these men thought of themselves as the elite: I had not been brought there to make endless cups of tea. I knew I had something important they wanted. I was the mouse they needed to catch a lion. Let them have their fun until then.

* * *

On day five, Robin, one of the marginally nicer guys, stopped by my table where I was knee-deep in their antiquated filing system that still used paper receipts.

‘Want to go out with us tomorrow?’ he asked.

Going out with inarguably the most ignorant bunch of men I had ever had the misfortune to meet was not the most appealing offer I could think of, and there was also the distinct possibility that this was a means to humiliate me in public, but… ‘Sure,’ I said softly. ‘Where are you guys going?’

‘To a crack house.’

I smiled for the first time since I had come to SO10. ‘Yeah, I do. I definitely do.’

‘Great. Briefing is at eleven. You’ll be going as a crack whore. So don’t wash your hair and bring slutty clothes and skanky shoes with you.’

I nodded happily.

Finally!