All four of the Hassan brothers worked as mechanics and their sister Jasmine ran the office, a small windowless cubbyhole in the far corner of the garage. Omar’s father had also hired a bodywork specialist, a Pakistani who had been in the country for just two years and was claiming asylum as an Afghan refugee. His name was Faisal and he was in his thirties. He had left his wife and two children in Pakistan and planned to bring them over once he had been granted leave to remain, which his lawyer thought would take three more years at most.

Faisal did most of his work at the far end of the garage in an area closed off with plastic sheeting. He was preparing to respray a door he’d recently repaired. When he saw Omar, he took off his mask and waved at him. Omar waved back. Faisal was a good Muslim, a true Muslim, and, like Omar, a committed jihadist. He trusted Faisal completely. He had told him about his al-Qaeda training and that one day he hoped to bring the jihadist fight to England. Faisal had nodded enthusiastically and promised to help.

Just as Omar pulled open the door to the locker room, his third brother, Aidan, came out, zipping up his overalls. ‘Hi, bruv,’ said Aidan. ‘Where’ve you been?’ He was seventeen and getting ready to go to university, though he had applied to study in Manchester so that he could continue to work part-time in the garage. He had a black eye and a scrape across his nose from where a badly secured van bonnet had crashed down on him two days earlier.

‘Dentist,’ said Omar.

‘You okay?’

‘He gave me an injection.’

‘Sorry, bruv.’

‘Aidan, get over here!’ shouted Toby. ‘How long does a dump take?’

Aidan grinned at Omar. ‘He’s a charmer, isn’t he?’ He jogged over to Toby.

Omar went into the locker room, which contained a dozen rusting metal lockers that his father had picked up cheaply at a government auction years earlier. There was a bench against one wall and a door leading to the bathroom. It was a men-only affair and rarely cleaned. Jasmine had her own facilities next to her office and guarded them jealously – she had the only key. Omar pulled his key-ring from the pocket of his jeans and opened his locker. He took out the envelope of cash and rifled through it: there were at least a hundred fifty-pound notes. He put it on the shelf, covered it with a copy of Motorcycle News, then changed into his overalls, which were blue, with the name of the garage on the back. His heart was pounding. He was finally doing it. He was finally on a mission. His life was about to change for ever.