‘Do you want tea?’ asked Jafari. ‘I can make tea.’

Al-Hussain smiled. ‘Yes, thank you. Tea would be good.’ He sat down on the sofa. Not long now.

The fourth and final vehicle to be fitted with a bomb was driven by Akram Hakim, but Sayyid didn’t know his name and didn’t care. His role was to manufacture the bombs, install them, then return to his normal life. The vehicle edged slowly into the unit and Farooqi pressed the button to bring down the shutter.

Sayyid and Hashmi manoeuvred the barrel to the back of the vehicle as Farooqi opened the door. They lifted it inside and tied it securely in place with washing line. Once they were satisfied, they climbed out and shut the door.

Sayyid got into the front, fitted the trigger to the driver’s right hand and showed him how to use it. He asked the man if he had any questions. He smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. ‘All is good, brother,’ he said.

‘Alhamdulillah,’ said Sayyid. Praise be to Allah. He climbed out and gave Farooqi a thumbs-up. Farooqi raised the metal shutter and the vehicle reversed out.

The three men stood at the open doorway and watched it drive away.

‘So, we are done, brothers,’ said Sayyid. ‘It has been a pleasure working with you.’

The three men embraced.

‘We must clean everything now,’ said Sayyid, ‘and burn our clothing. Then we can all go home.’

‘It will happen today?’ asked Hashmi. He hit the button to lower the shutter, which rattled down.

‘I don’t know for sure,’ said Sayyid. ‘And it’s better we don’t know.’

‘It has to be today,’ said Farooqi.

‘That’s not for us to worry about,’ said Sayyid. ‘Let’s get this place cleaned up and then we can go.’

Two dozen CCTV cameras were covering the inside and outside of the stadium, and Inspector Andrew Fielding could see their feeds on the screens in front of him. He was in the main security room of the stadium, in charge of the fifty uniformed officers on duty. Fielding had just turned thirty-two and he had spent the last three years involved in crowd security. It was challenging police work at the best of times and he had cut his teeth at some of the toughest stadiums in London, keeping apart warring fans, who seemed determined to kill each other and anyone who got between them. Not that he was expecting any trouble that evening. Boxing fans were different from football fans. Chalk and cheese. There was almost never any trouble at a match: all the violence was in the ring. But at a soccer game, where men earning millions fell to the ground clutching their legs at the merest hint of physical contact, fans could behave like animals.