Operation Midnight progressed through its first week and into its second. Then at 3 in the morning, on the final night of the longest stakeout Mike had ever been in charge of . . . it happened. As the metallic noise echoed round the empty streets, it was impossible to work out where it was coming from, so the team stayed put. And listened. Their minds filled in the blanks as they each tried to figure out what they were hearing and which direction it was coming from – the consensus being that someone was standing on a dustbin and scrabbling up hard guttering.

Mike’s heart was beating out of his chest as he stretched his cold, seized-up leg muscles, getting ready for action. ‘All units stand by, stand by. Radio silence.’ His eyes scanned the darkness as he listened and his brain automatically filtered out the sound of foxes feeding, rats foraging and the homeless turning over in their sleeping bags – so that all that was left was the sound of his burglar creeping around his well-trodden rat-run.

Then there was an almighty crash, forcing Mike to instruct his men to go overt: torches went on, and everyone came out of hiding and raced towards the noise, while black-clad police officers looking like ninjas scrambled across rooftops.

Beneath them, their burglar was on the run. The officers covering the ground exits resisted the instinct to close in and help; instead they held their positions and waited for the perp to come to them. Radios burst into life with a running commentary of street names and compass directions. Occasionally, Mike heard the words ‘lost him, lost him’ but they were quickly followed by ‘chasing suspect, chasing suspect’ as another officer took up the pursuit. It was thrilling and excruciating at the same time. Mike wasn’t near the actual chase; he was on one of the exits with a couple of his men, willing the burglar to come his way so he could be the one who physically caught their man. But then he heard ‘suspect detained’ And it was all over.

Every officer now left their position and headed for the rendezvous point, all wanting to see who they’d spent three and a half weeks hunting. In the back of an area car sat a small, wet, dirty man, hands cuffed behind his back. He smelt of beer and BO and, as Mike shone a torch in through the window, he could see that the man was crying. He figured he was a druggie, stealing to feed his habit. He’d targeted a working-class area because it meant that there’d be no alarm systems to bypass. He was a nobody who would not be missed.