‘Will do,’ said Aspden, in his ear.

‘Shall we go up?’ asked Shepherd.

Willoughby-Brown nodded and headed into the empty lift. Shepherd and the three armed officers followed him.

The man was lying on the floor, programmes scattered around him. He was groaning and the woman standing over him thought he’d fainted. ‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘Can I help you up?’

‘My leg,’ he said. ‘My leg – it’s burning.’

She looked down at it – his trousers were wet with blood. She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. Help me – please.’

The woman wasn’t sure what to do. She caught the eye of a man sitting in the stand behind her. ‘Please help me!’ she shouted. ‘There’s a man hurt here!’

Music began to play, a Russian tune, as the Russian heavyweight made his way to the ring, surrounded by his entourage. The main bout would soon be under way.

The woman screamed again, fighting to make herself heard over the blare of the music. ‘Help me, please!’

Shepherd concentrated on breathing slowly as the floor counter ticked on. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

Willoughby-Brown turned to the wall and began to speak. ‘Thank you, Wendy.’ He paused, took a breath, then continued: ‘Superintendent Enfield, you have a helicopter in the air over the stadium?’

‘We do, yes.’

‘I need you to get it to take a look at the middle of the three tower blocks overlooking the stadium. We believe there’s a sniper in the block and at least three men will be close to the window. I’m hoping the chopper’s infrared capability will find them.’

‘I’ll get it done now,’ said the superintendent.

‘I’ll stay on the line, if I may.’

‘See how Kuznetsov always drops his right, just before he does the uppercut with his left? That’s a tell, that is. As soon as Hughes spots it, it’s game over.’ Richie McBride was sitting next to his son, trying to explain the finer points of the bout. They were up in the stands but even though they were well away from the action the seats had cost close to fifty pounds each.

Richie’s son, Sean, was leaning forward with his head in his hands, watching the fight as if his life depended on it. He’d started boxing a year earlier at his local youth club, following in his father’s footsteps. Richie had almost made pro. Almost, but not quite. He’d taken one too many hits to the jaw and a fracture had healed badly meaning that his fighting days had ended before they’d really started. But Sean knew how to protect his head and, even though he was only fourteen, he was clearly going to be a better fighter than Richie could ever have hoped to be.

‘Hughes is going to win, no question,’ said Richie.

‘He’s tired, though.’

‘No, he’s sweating, but that doesn’t mean he’s tired. You can sweat without being tired. His arms are up, and look at the way he’s ducking and diving. He’s fine.’