Late next morning I stood under the big blue lamp outside 27 Savile Row, watching Edie Wren’s breath make steam in the freezing air. She was wearing a red Rab winter jacket that was too padded to reveal she was pregnant. She saw me looking at her.

‘It’s too early to show yet,’ she said, and I turned away, my face burning.

‘Here he comes,’ I said.

An unmarked squad car with Billy Greene at the wheel was coming down Savile Row and as he pulled up outside West End Central you could see that every possible corner of the vehicle was stuffed with winter coats that we were planning to take to the camp in Dunkirk.

‘You sure you’re up for this?’ I asked Edie. ‘I can always take Billy.’

She shook her head and tucked a stray strand of red hair under her beanie.

‘This op works better with a man and a woman,’ she said. ‘And besides – you must be tired of babysitting Billy.’

I smiled. She was right, of course. I didn’t have to worry about Edie in the same way I worried about Billy.

He began pulling coats out of the car.

‘I went to Oxfam, Cancer Research and British Red Cross,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t get any more in the car.’

‘This is great, Billy,’ I said, and the three of us took the coats out of Billy’s squad car and loaded them into my BMW X5. There were coats for men, women and children. They were in good nick. Londoners in Mayfair, Marylebone and Soho don’t wear a winter coat until it falls to bits. They wear it until they get tired of it.

I paused, looking at Edie over the high bonnet of the big BMW, giving her one last chance to change her mind. I was torn. There was nobody I would rather have by my side than Edie Wren but her pregnancy changed everything. I wanted her to be OK. I wanted the baby to be OK.

‘I don’t know, Edie.’

‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘It will work better with us.’

So we drove to France.

We saw the riot cops before we saw the camp.

The CRS, the general reserve of the French National Police, swaggered across the A16 in their helmets and boots, their semi-automatics held at a 45-degree angle.

One of them raised a hand from his weapon. I stopped and he stuck his head inside the car. I could see the scratches and scuff marks on his visor. He held out a leather-gloved hand and I gave him my driving licence.

There was no point in showing him my warrant card. We had no authority down here.

I watched him stare at the image on the driving licence and then back at me.