The church hall was sectioned off into two areas. As Barrowman strode through the front door, he was met by a scene of calm efficiency as officers dealt with lost children, and first aiders dealt with mild sunstroke and elderly people who had had minor falls. But Barrowman could also hear a buzz of chatter from a second area towards the back of the room that was curtained off from prying eyes, and that was where he headed.

Pulling back the curtain, he saw a bank of screens linked to surrounding CCTV cameras, being monitored by a team of six officers, while Gifford stood in front of several whiteboards displaying an array of information. Barrowman couldn’t make head nor tail of it all – until he spotted a map highlighting the five target properties and probable escape routes. Five properties were going to be burgled and no one had told him!

Barrowman was about to give Gifford a piece of his mind, but was stopped in his tracks by the sudden entrance of a bruised and bloody Jack. He had a blood-soaked bandage towards the back of his head, and blood on his shirt collar. ‘Did we get Betina Barro?’ he shouted. ‘Who’ve we arrested? Names! Come on! And the Adidas NMD guy, did we get him?’ He paused for a moment to get his breath while Barrowman and Gifford looked on in equal bemusement.

‘Alberto escaped from my raid. He said we didn’t get everyone . . . he texted . . .’ Jack staggered on the spot, but quickly righted himself. ‘He only cares about . . . he wouldn’t text anyone else. It had to have been Betina.’

Gifford picked up a chair, took Jack by the arm and sat him down next to an officer seated in front of the CCTV screens. The officer pointed out where each target house was situated, and which ones had ended in arrests. With the exception of Alberto Barro, every other gang member who had arrived at a target home had been arrested.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Jack mumbled to himself, desperate to put the pieces together. ‘She was here. He texted her, I know he did. And she texted back. So, where was she? If not at any of the target homes, where the hell was Betina Barro?’ Then a memory found its way to the surface and a terrible idea struck him. ‘He called them “cannon fodder”.’ My God! Was it all just smoke and mirrors?’

*