‘Ready,’ he told Abbott. ‘Place is rigged.’ The two of them joined Miller at the canteen, where the eight children were gathered, and Abbott did a headcount. The little girl he’d spoken to earlier was there, the other three; the Polish couple’s child, the cleaner girl and the last one. All accounted for. He and Miller ushered them into the back of the van, which had arrived with Tom Brace at the wheel, Miller covering them, swinging the barrel of his AR-15 left and right, showing good muzzle discipline even after all these years.

‘We have someone out there,’ he said all of a sudden.

‘You back there,’ called Abbott. ‘You need to come out into the open now. You won’t be harmed.’

The guy appeared. One of Doyle’s flunkies. Another kid in track pants and a sweatshirt. As Abbott covered him, Miller moved forward, relieved the guy of his gun and zipped him up. ‘Go,’ he said, and the guy began running, hands behind his back. That was four altogether, zipped and sent on their way. Aside from that, plenty of fatalities inside the factory, as well as the sentries taken out on the approach. As a plan, it had not been carried out flawlessly, but so far each objective had been achieved. Abbott wasn’t complaining.

They drove, putting the factory to their back. At the dual carriageway they stopped. Abbott saw the final zip-tied guy still running across the wasteland behind them, but the guy was out of the blast zone by now, and besides, the police would be here soon.

‘Whiskey One, blow it,’ he said.

They opened the rear doors of the van but motioned for the kids to stay inside. ‘Watch,’ he told them. ‘The place is about to go up.’

Ward gave the small handheld detonator to the bruised cleaner girl, inviting her to press the button. She did the honours, and the children cheered as in the distance came the crump of the explosion – one, two, three, and then a final fourth as the main factory went up, the skyline suddenly orange, the fingers of a huge blue-black plume of smoke reaching to the heavens.

Time to leave, and Abbott provided Brace with directions to The Freemasons Arms. Arriving about ten minutes later, they pulled up out of sight of the pub. Shards of light blazed beneath the boarded-up windows.

‘Do you need back-up?’ asked Brace.

‘No,’ said Abbott. ‘Anybody who comes out that front door can take their chances.’ He swapped his Scar for his Glock, left the van, and took a familiar route to the cellar hatch, discovering that it had been padlocked since his last visit. He put a round in the padlock. Another one until the lock hung loose. Carefully he raised the hatch, pointing the gun below, into the cellar.

Empty.