Scavell gave him a description of his associate’s car. Then Bowman killed the call, ejected the spare SIM card from his phone and replaced it with his regular SIM. He stashed the other SIM in the secret compartment in his washbag, threw off his suit, showered and changed into his off-duty gear. Dark jeans, plain T-shirt, Timberland boots. He dropped into the frayed armchair, scooped up the remote and flicked through the channels on the TV.

A small army of reporters had camped out in front of a police cordon outside the Greybourn Hotel. No one knew about the poisoning yet, it seemed. There were unconfirmed reports of a terrorist attack, the reporter said. She seemed very keen to reassure viewers that the royal family was believed to be safe. Police lights pulsed in the background.

Bowman’s mind drifted back to the night his world collapsed. It always did, in the end. He could never escape that gruesome memory. Christ knows, he had tried. Fifteen years had passed since that evening, but the images were so vivid it sometimes felt as if it had happened yesterday. He would be sitting in the pub, or walking down the street in Hereford, and suddenly he would see his young family dead on the kitchen floor. A momentary snapshot. Like a subliminal message spliced into a film reel. He would see his wife, Amy, her beautiful face ruined by the smile the gangsters had drawn on it with the tip of a kitchen knife. His little girl, Sophie, wearing her favourite princess dress. A sleepy look in her eyes, as if she had nodded off beside her mother.

And the blood. Always he would see the blood.

In the years since their horrific murders, Bowman had tried to move on. He had sought to escape in booze, sleeping pills, other drugs. Nothing had worked. Only the opioids gave him some semblance of peace. They didn’t block the memories – no drug in the world could do that – but they did numb the pain. They turned him into a kind of zombie. Helped him make it through the day.

But lately, the images had been getting stronger.

He had started popping a few extra pills each day, upping his dosage. Anything to dial down the grief. Put the lid on it. Bowman knew he was playing a dangerous game. The more pills he took, the more he needed to stay on the level. And the bigger the risk of getting caught. Bowman had gone to greater lengths to conceal his addiction, but if he kept this up, sooner or later someone in the Regiment was going to find out the truth . . .

He watched TV and waited, growing more restless with each passing minute. At ten minutes to two he grabbed his coat, wallet, phone and left his room.