The two police officers took Macdonald out through the rear entrance where a large white truck was waiting. A dark blue saloon car was parked behind it: four armed police officers were sitting in it wearing bullet-proof vests. Behind them two police motorcyclists were revving their engines.

The officers took Macdonald inside the van. There were separate stalls, each with its own door. They pushed him into one, attached one of his cuffs to a chrome rail and removed the other, then locked the door.

Macdonald sat down on the moulded plastic seat and stared out of a square window of reinforced glass. He heard more prisoners being brought into the truck, and doors slamming. Then the engine started and the truck edged out of the car park into the street. The two motorcycles roared round it and took the lead; the car of armed police followed behind.

Through the window, Macdonald saw mothers pushing prams, young men in suits striding along purposefully with briefcases, old people standing at bus stops. Normal people leading normal lives. Civilians. Several turned to stare at the truck as it rumbled along the road – wondering, no doubt, which hardened criminals were being taken to get the retribution they deserved. Rapists? Child molesters? Murderers? Only twenty-four hours earlier he’d been on the outside, leading a normal life. Macdonald smiled tightly. No, that was wrong. His life was far from normal. It had been a long time since his life had been anything other than extraordinary.

He saw a young couple embracing, kissing each other full on the lips, then parting and waving goodbye. His stomach lurched. He’d been trying not to think of his wife and son and how they’d be feeling, not knowing where he was or what was happening to him. But there was nothing he could do about that just now. There was no way he could contact them – not until he’d figured out what was going on and why his life had been turned upside-down.

The magistrate was a man in his fifties with unfashionably long hair that Macdonald felt was probably tied back in a ponytail when he wasn’t on the bench.

Macdonald sat in the dock, a uniformed policeman at each shoulder. He had no idea if anyone else from the gang had already appeared, or if anyone else would follow him. When he’d been taken out of the truck the doors to the rest of the stalls had been locked and there was no one else in the waiting room where he’d been kept for half an hour before his court appearance. Two armed policemen stood guard while he was in the waiting room and two more were in the court. The magistrate read a file through half-moon reading glasses, then looked over the top of them at Macdonald. ‘You’re refusing to give your name?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Macdonald.

‘That’s a little pointless, isn’t it?’ He had the vestiges of a Scottish accent, as if he’d been born north of the border but had spent most of his life in London.