Another detective had read Marty his rights and was handcuffing him. Evans was also being cuffed. ‘This is fucking out of order!’ shouted Shepherd. He pushed the detective standing next to him in the chest, hard. ‘We’re just here for the fucking boxing!’

Shepherd was grabbed from behind and the detective he’d pushed was in his face. ‘Terry Taylor, you’re being charged with murder, and conspiracy to commit murder.’

‘Fuck off!’

Shepherd’s hands were cuffed behind him and he was frog-marched out of the room, down another corridor, and out to a car-parking area. Tommy was being put into one police van and Marty into another.

Evans was brought out by two burly detectives in leather jackets and he grinned at Shepherd. ‘Don’t worry, Terry, we’ll be out in a few hours. They’ve got nothing. Just keep schtum and let the lawyers do the talking. Tommy will handle everything.’

‘I want to see the fucking boxing, mate. This is a fucking liability.’

Evans laughed. ‘They’ll have it on at the cop shop. We can watch it there.’ Evans glared at the detective who was holding his left arm. ‘I’ll be claiming back the cost of these tickets from the Met, and that’s a fucking promise.’

A security guard pulled back a metal gate and the two vans drove out. Evans was put into the back of a patrol car and driven off through the gate. Then it was Shepherd’s turn. Two detectives walked him over to a Mercedes police van, opened the rear door and helped him in. Amar Singh was sitting in the back and Shepherd grinned as the door slammed behind him.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ said Shepherd.

‘Jeremy thought you might like to see a friendly face,’ said Singh. ‘And make sure they didn’t accidentally throw you in jail.’

‘It wouldn’t have been the first time.’

Singh showed him a handcuff key and Shepherd turned around so that he could release the cuffs. He massaged his wrists and sat down. The van was already moving. Shepherd gestured at the driver. ‘Where’s he going?’

‘Just away from here,’ said Singh. ‘Willoughby-Brown wants you to call him.’

‘Yeah. It’s turning out to be a busy day.’

‘Who do you think’ll win the fight?’

‘The Russian.’

‘Have you still got your ticket?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘It’d be a pity to waste it,’ said Singh. ‘It’s going to be an awesome fight. I’ve got fifty quid on the Russian.’

Stuart Smith followed the white Prius as it drove slowly through the car park. There were very few spaces to be had. Pretending to be a wannabe cabbie studying the Knowledge was a great cover on the open road but his moped with its Plexiglas map holder was out of place in the car park so he hung well back.