Lockland was panicking. ‘Where are you? There are hundreds of people here, hanging out of the windows and shouting at me.’

‘Just grab him, will you, before the whole thing becomes a circus.’

‘I’m not the one who let him get away. Hang on.’

She crashed through another gate. What might once have been a garden was now someone’s scrapyard. Pieces of car, old washing machines, a glassless greenhouse, even more of the ubiquitous plastic bins . . .

She dodged round a breeding group. ‘What are these things?’

‘People put their rubbish in them, I think,’ said Matthew.

Jane was baffled. ‘Whatever for?’

‘No idea. Presumably they like the smell of garbage. Or perhaps it’s a form of currency. Where are you?’

‘Closing.’

‘Well . . . close faster,’ shouted Parrish, obviously feeling it was time to impose his authority.

There was a pause and then, for the first time in her life, Jane said, ‘Why don’t you just shut up.’

Ellis turned to North. ‘Did she just tell him to shut up?’

North nodded. ‘Well, someone should.’

Time Police officers were scheduled regular periods of physical activity. Attendance was compulsory. There was running, self-defence, weapons training and such. No sessions ever included dodging small dogs, screaming women, feral children and large plastic wheelie bins.

Henry Plimpton climbed on top of a ferret cage and scrambled over another wall.

‘Oh . . . f . . .’ Hot and dirty, Lockland threw herself after him.

‘Nearly,’ said Ellis. ‘Get your money ready.’

North made a derisive noise, but, mindful of his rank, ended it respectfully with, ‘Sir.’

They were back in the alleyway again. Not a hundred yards from Henry Plimpton’s back gate.

Lockland stopped, chest heaving. ‘We’ve run in a circle. He’s nearly back home again.’

Parrish was galvanised. ‘We’ve really screwed this up. He’s heading for his pod. He’s going to make a run for it. The only way to avoid lifelong ridicule is to get the bastard before he gets there. Farrell – you go that way. Cut him off.’

‘Ah,’ said Ellis with satisfaction. ‘He’s learning.’

‘Indeed, sir. On-the-job training. You can’t beat it.’

‘Look at the state of him. Is that a sanitary item hanging off his shoulder?’

‘A tea bag, I think, sir.’

‘Thank God. I wouldn’t have let him back in the pod, ­otherwise.’

Lockland, gaining with every step, was breathless but determined. ‘Henry Plimpton, I arrest you in the name of . . .’ She heaved a breath. ‘I just arrest you. Stop. Stand still. Before you collapse, sir. Please.’

Indeed, Henry Plimpton’s condition was alarming. Red-faced, he was dripping with sweat. His chest heaved as his lungs struggled to cope. Summoning a last effort from somewhere, he made to run.

‘He’s resisting arrest,’ yelled Parrish. ‘String him. String the bastard. What are you waiting for?’

Fumbling at her belt, Lockland pulled out an aerosol. Bright yellow liquid string enveloped Henry Plimpton’s trembling legs and he fell heavily to the ground.