The pilot, Andrew Delaney, and the paramedic, Kirsten Dunwoody, sat up front, and the trauma doctor, Julian Turner, sat behind them, writing up his notes. All three had their helmets on. It was 10.15 a.m. and they were just over two hours into their eight-hour shift.

Turner looked up from his tablet and peered out of the window to his right, which was beaded with tiny drops of rainwater. He took in the familiar lush landscape below. The views from the helicopter still excited him after four years of doing this job, and he joked to friends that he had the best office in the world. Swathes of green Downland slid past, patchworks of fields, isolated houses, occasional swimming pools and tennis courts, lakes, reservoirs, the dark, straight stretches and winding ribbons of road, and, far over to the right, the English Channel, the sea a flat grey today. The only thing he struggled with was the topography. From up in the air, the hills below were flattened out and although he knew the key landmarks, he got confused at times, trying to figure out exactly where they were.

Delaney, a highly experienced pilot, ex-Fleet Air Arm and then ten years ferrying workers to and from North Sea oil rigs, had an ability Turner really admired. He was able to land the machine in often seemingly impossible places and pretty much regardless of the weather, inspiring confidence in everyone who flew with him. One advantage this helicopter had over many other makes was its lack of a tail rotor blade, making landing in confined spaces with people around much safer.

‘Tell me, guys,’ the pilot’s posh voice came through their speakers, above the roar of the twin engines. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘Get what, Andrew?’ Turner queried. ‘You’re still the best-looking man in this chopper, in case you’re worried?’

‘Never forget it! I’m talking about that last shout. I mean, bloody hell? The manufacturers of that threshing machine do all they can to make it safe and the guy takes it upon himself to undo all that. I mean, hello?’

‘I agree, incredibly stupid?’ Kirsten Dunwoody said in her Aussie accent which always, Turner thought, made everything she said sound like a question, as it did now. ‘Poor man. Let’s hope he makes it?’

‘Andrew, you know the problem with making anything idiot-proof?’ Turner said. He provided the answer without waiting for a reply. ‘It’s that idiots have a great deal of ingenuity!’

At that moment the alert on the comms panel in front of the doctor flashed, signalling a new incident. He leaned forward and answered. The despatcher’s voice, sounding crystal clear, said, ‘Helimed Six Zero?’

‘Helimed Six Zero,’ Turner answered.

‘I have you approaching Brighton, correct?’

‘Correct,’ the doctor confirmed.

‘RTC in New Church Road, Hove,’ the despatcher said. ‘Car versus a schoolboy. We’ve had lots of 999s coming in. It sounds bad. It’s a wide road, Andrew, do you think you can land there? Alternatively there’s a park nearby.’