Fielding’s radio buzzed. He mouthed an apology to Murray and put it to his ear.

‘How are things, Andrew?’ It was Superintendent Stephen Enfield, the officer in charge of the Met Control Centre at Bow.

‘All good, Superintendent.’

‘No problems?’

‘We’ve had a few weapons confiscated, penknives mainly, and a chap claimed that his knuckleduster was a paperweight, but nothing serious. Everyone’s very well-behaved – it’s a pleasant change from a match day.’

‘Let’s hope it stays that way,’ said the superintendent. ‘Have you spoken to the SAS chappie, Alex Murray?’

‘He’s here now.’

‘Excellent. He’s already met with the SFOs so there won’t be any embarrassing misunderstandings. Captain Murray and his team will be in radio contact with me while they’re there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good man. Talk to you later.’

Fielding put down his radio and apologised to the captain.

‘All good,’ said Murray. ‘Ian’s going to give me the tour and then I’ll head down to the VIP area.’ He shook hands again with Fielding and left with Chapman.

Fielding dropped into one of the chairs facing the monitors. The main bout was a couple of hours away and he planned to watch it as close to the ringside as he could get. And the fact he was wearing full uniform meant that would be pretty darn close.

‘Are you all right there, Terry? You’re like you’ve got something on your mind.’ Tommy O’Neill was sitting at a table in the Mayfair bar with his third bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket by his side. Marty was opposite him, and a blonde with pneumatic breasts that were threatening to burst out of her red dress was running her scarlet fingernails along the thigh of his black Armani suit.

Shepherd faked a smile and patted his chest. ‘Indigestion,’ he said. ‘Should have done what my old mum used to say and chew before I swallow.’

‘I’ve got some Rennies if you want,’ said Tommy.

‘Nah, I’m good.’ Shepherd had arrived at the Mayfair just as the O’Neills had been sitting down to eat, along with Evans and two others of their crew. After they’d polished off their steaks they’d moved to the bar and demolished half a dozen bottles of champagne between them.

Marty looked at his watch. ‘We should be making a move,’ he said. ‘No way of telling what the traffic’s going to be like.’

‘Yeah, I don’t want to miss the Wilkie-Okoro fight,’ said Tommy. ‘I need to see Okoro fold in the fifth. Because if he doesn’t there’ll be hell to pay.’ He raised his glass to Marty, grinned then drained it in one.

Marty waved for the bill and handed over a gold credit card, brushing away Shepherd’s attempts to pay. ‘Nah, Terry, today’s on me,’ he said. ‘After everything you’ve done for us recently, it’s the least we can do.’