Bowman took hold of Roidhead and shoved him roughly towards the front door. The team hastened down the hallway and squeezed into the private lift. Roidhead started bricking it as they rode the car down to the underground car park. Which was unsurprising. He had just seen his boss nosedive to his death. He was in the presence of stone-cold killers. People who spoke his own language, but with far more skill and ruthlessness. He pleaded in a small, panicked voice as Bowman marched the guy over to the Range Rover and sprang the boot. The rest of the team piled inside the vehicle as Bowman pressed the Ruger against the heavy’s stomach.

‘Get in,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Don’t kill me. Please. I’ll talk.’

‘You’re definitely gonna talk,’ Bowman said. ‘There’s some people in London who are very interested in finding out what you know. Now get in.’

He rammed the gun harder against Roidhead, the metal tip digging into his ribs. Roidhead climbed awkwardly inside the void, rolling onto his side and bringing his legs up, his knees tucked against his chest. Bowman slammed the boot shut then jogged round to the driver’s side door and scooched behind the wheel. Seguma sat hunch-shouldered in the back seat between Casey and Webb.

‘Dump the guns in the bag,’ Mallet said.

Bowman and Webb slid the clips out of their Rugers and then pulled back the sliders, checking the chambers. They dropped the pistols, holsters and magazines into the Herschel. Mallet stashed the bag in the footwell.

‘Get us out of here,’ he said.

They climbed the exit ramp and swung right. Loader had parked the Mercedes E-Class forty metres further along, in a loading bay in front of a post office. Bowman pulled up in front of the estate, kept the engine ticking over. Casey and Webb jumped out, ran over to the E-Class and hopped inside. Then both vehicles took off again. The Range Rover in the lead, Loader immediately to the rear, a two-vehicle convoy. A swift manoeuvre, taking no more than three or four seconds. And also necessary. Five guys crammed together in a single car would look suspicious. They might catch the eye of an overenthusiastic police officer. Too risky, especially with a thug in the boot and guns in a bag. Safer to spread the team out between the two motors.

Beyond the central reservation, on the other side of the road, an ambulance screamed past the late-morning traffic, sirens flashing. Two police cars raced after the ambo. Bowman caught sight of them in the rear-view as they hit the gap in the central reservation. They crossed over into the opposite lane, screeched to a halt in front of the apartment block. A small crowd had formed in the street outside.

‘Stick to the limit,’ Mallet said. ‘And for fuck’s sake don’t run any lights.’