Tracey is remember by a colleague Stephen:
 My earliest memories of Tracey are from my days as a callow Detective Constable, just arrived in the hallowed corridors of Special Branch. Like a two-headed Cerberus, she and Maureen stood guard at the gates of the Training Office, shielding their genial Detective Inspector from the importunate requests of parvenus. They must have spent days together practising the same thin-lipped expression of incredulous outrage at applications for the most trivial and basic courses, but as you slunk away ashamed at your own temerity for seeking, for instance, the basic paperclip course, you would hear gales of raucous laughter behind you. Yet once you had been accepted as not too much of a nuisance, it turned out that Tracey was genial, helpful and very knowledgeable; she just expected police officers to know their place, which was as equals of and not superior to the many ‘civilians’ who had dedicated their entire career to the Branch and knew its workings intimately.
 
She and Maureen had been thick as thieves for longer than anyone could remember, and were popular company after hours in The Tank, though unlike Maureen, Tracey’s capacity for alcohol was legendary. If she ever did feel unsteady on her feet during the time I knew her in Special Branch, I never spotted it, and it was all the more impressive as she invariably wore her trademark high heels.
 
Most of the time I spent with Tracey was at Waterloo International. It was assumed that this was run by the Detective Chief Inspector, but actually Tracey managed the show. DIs came and went, never really understanding the arcane mysteries of the workings of P-WIT and wholly reliant on her. She was also the conduit of the DCI's displeasure, and she did this so effectively that, over the course of the year that I spent there, he was free to maintain the persona of affable DCI, and I only once saw him rebuke anyone in person. Tracey discharged this duty mainly through a sliding scale of facial expressions: mildest was when she pointed out your shortcomings with wide eyes expressing incredulity; after that came a wide-mouthed, thin-lipped look; you had hit rock bottom if she combined that with slitty eyes.
 
In her role as the unit’s eminence gris, she was helped in part by the chief inspectors tendancy towards delegation, thus allowing him to focus on delicate liaison and hospitality matters; in part also by her knowledge of the complex geography of the subterranean Victorian maze of rooms and corridors under Waterloo Station, where she could plausibly disappear for hours moving between the numerous SB offices, storage rooms and locker rooms; but mainly by the fiendish system of record administration she oversaw. This ensured that she was (a) indispensible; and (b) the only person who knew how to collate the statistics for the weekly key performance indictors by which the DCI's (and hence our) happiness was measured. 
 
One day we had a conversation which taught me most of what I later needed to know about KPIs:
 
Me – How are the stats looking this week?
Tracey – Pretty good. Slightly up on last week.
Me – Oh, that’s good. How are we doing this month?
Tracey – Quite well. Over the year some months are up and some are down, but the overall trend is up.
Me – It must take you ages to do.
Tracey – Nah. I know that you’re all working hard. I just make them up. Keeps everyone happy.
 
One of the duties of officers who travelled to France and Belgium to carry out on-board controls on the Eurostar was to acquire consignments of cigarettes and wine on Tracey’s behalf: in those days she seemed to subsist exclusively on red wine, fags and air. On only one occasion I recall did she travel out with us, presumably to confirm that we were all indeed working hard. As we walked back to the station in Lille after a ‘working’lunch, she stopped dead in the street. ‘What’s wrong?’, we asked. ‘I can’t walk any further’, she replied. Full of concern we asked ‘Why not?’. She stood stock still, then said ‘Because my f****** heel is stuck in this f****** grate.’