Then, as the weapon was raised for the final kill, Jack breathed out what he thought might be his last words: ‘Alberto Barro.’ The words made the crowbar freeze, mid-strike. The man took off his mask and laughed. ‘Good for you. What are you going to do . . . arrest me?’

As his head spun and his vision swirled, Jack’s only hope of survival now was that Alberto loved the sound of his own voice so much, that he would keep taunting Jack until backup arrived. Alberto’s mobile pinged. It was Betina:

Safe.

Alberto smiled. ‘Know this before I kill you. You haven’t got us all. What you’ve got is cannon fodder. Small fry who don’t even know who they’re working for.’

Jack’s vision was becoming clearer and, with the adrenaline fiercely pumping, dulling the pain in his head, he said simply, ‘Michael De Voe.’ He saw the silhouette before him straighten and tense. Jack smiled. He couldn’t see Alberto’s expression, but he now knew that the police did know who the small fry were working for. And if they knew that, then they knew everything. Although Alberto was the one with a crowbar in his hand, it was his voice that now trembled in fear: ‘Who are you?’

Jack’s voice was deep and steady. ‘Jack Warr.’

At this point, Jack still imagined that he was about to die, but he was determined that his name would be a ghost haunting Alberto Barro’s dreams for the rest of his life. As the crowbar was drawn back, time stood still long enough for Jack to clearly picture Maggie and Hannah. He smiled and focused on his beautiful, love-filled final memory.

Suddenly a voice shouted Jack’s name, sending Alberto fleeing into the field, swiftly followed by adrenaline-fuelled police officers. Someone knelt by Jack’s side – he had no idea who – and they assured him that he was going to be OK.

*

Barrowman’s charity buffet was a loud, raucous event: exactly what this systematically victimised community needed. The beer tent was packed, the band was on stage belting out a classic pop number, and the low buzz of voices filled the air. Then all of this was abruptly drowned out by the sound of two different types of siren, coming from several directions. Police cars and ambulances. Everyone stopped in their tracks to watch dozens of blue lights flash past.

Barrowman intuitively ran towards the church hall – the only person moving amid the stunned crowds all speculating about what on earth was going on.

Half a mile away, in one of the fields, Betina, wearing tourist clothes, a headscarf and dark glasses, made her way through the sea of cars, towards an aerial sporting a red ribbon, blowing in the breeze.