Willoughby-Brown didn’t want to interrupt Aspden on the radio so he sent a text message: Westfield doesn’t feel right to me.

Aspden replied almost immediately: Me neither.

Shepherd travelled to the stadium in the back of a Mercedes with the O’Neills and Paul Evans. There was another car with four more of the O’Neill crew, and the two vehicles arrived at the VIP entrance at the same time. Marty led the way, tickets in hand, while Tommy followed with Evans. Shepherd held back. He took his phone out and had a quick look at the screen: one missed call, number withheld, almost certainly Willoughby-Brown. He slipped it back into his pocket. A pretty blonde in a fluorescent vest checked Marty’s tickets, flashed him a beaming smile and waved for him to go through. They walked down a narrow corridor to a reception room where there were four more security guards and a metal-detector arch. ‘Bloody hell, this is worse than getting on a plane,’ grumbled Tommy.

‘It’s just a precaution, sir,’ said a young lad in a fluorescent vest that seemed several sizes too big for him. ‘And you can leave your shoes on. Just phones and anything metallic in the tray.’

One by one they placed their belongings in grey plastic trays and walked through the arch. As Tommy was putting his phone and wallet back into his pockets, two middle-aged men in long coats walked up to him. Tommy sneered at them before either spoke, recognising them for what they were. ‘Thomas O’Neill, I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder, extortion, and money-laundering,’ said the younger of the two. He was ginger-haired with a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. ‘You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I have just said to you?’

‘I want to call my lawyer,’ growled Tommy.

‘You can do that from the station. Please turn around.’

Tommy did as he was told and the detective went to handcuff him. More detectives were coming into the room. Two went towards Marty, and two headed for Evans.

‘You don’t need the cuffs. I’m too long in the tooth to do a runner.’

‘It’s procedure, sir,’ he was told.

‘Don’t fuck around, Tommy,’ said the older detective. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t been arrested before, is it?’

‘It’s been a while,’ said Tommy. ‘And the last copper who put his hands on me lived to regret it, big-time.’

‘You wouldn’t be threatening a police officer, would you now, Tommy? I thought you knew better than that.’

Tommy glared at him but kept his mouth shut and allowed himself to be handcuffed.

Shepherd felt his arm being grabbed and turned to see a detective with grey hair and a dark moustache holding him. ‘Get your fucking hand off me,’ he snapped.