It was a journey he could not hope to finish alive.

It was a moment or two before Hale saw him, leaving Hale little time to think. Burrell was moving fast and Hale acted on instinct. With his own weapon already in hand, he aimed it at Burrell’s chest with every intention of pulling the trigger.

Had Burrell been a yard or two closer, Hale would have done exactly that. But he was not, and so Hale had the extra instant to realise that his attacker was not only unarmed, he was in fact still restrained with his arms cuffed behind him. It made Hale hesitate, and it almost allowed the now near-berserk Burrell to reach him.

Almost.

Burrell was just feet away when a bullet tore into the very centre of his chest. Hale did not see the shooter, but it was enough to take Burrell down on its own. Four more bullets – which, from their directions of fire, came from at least two other MP5s – joined it in the next instant. Just to make sure. That was the difference between police officers with guns and a highly trained, specialist firearms unit. The latter did not hesitate when bullets were flying. For them, the questions could always wait.

With the shooting over, Hale stepped forward, towards Burrell’s body.

He looked down and noticed again how small Burrell seemed; if anything the man somehow looked more insignificant in death. Then he looked around. At a road now devastated by gunfire.

He looked back to Burrell.

All of this to be the big boss, he thought. And you didn’t even make it to day five.

FORTY-FIVE

Derek Reid had not slept a full night since Phillip Longman’s death. If he was honest this was nothing new; his sleep had long been fitful, regularly interrupted by toilet breaks that were a symptom of his age. But since Longman’s murder it had been much worse.

He was managing four hours a night. Maybe less. The rest of the time was spent tossing and turning.

Reid had hoped that four bottles of wine would change that. That they would at least see him through the night. But they had not. The thought of his friend’s murder still ravaged him.

The bedside clock had read 2 a.m. when Reid first awoke.

He had chosen to ignore it. To try to sleep. But it proved a hopeless ambition. Forty-five minutes later he was still awake, his mind a bustling hive of images and thoughts.

It was time to accept defeat.

Reid threw off the light sheets that had covered him, exposing his naked body. It was not a sight that filled him with pride as he looked down, but as always he forced himself to ignore it as he slid his legs out of the bed.

He felt the cold of the wooden floor under his feet as he sat up. He stayed there for a few moments, on the edge of the mattress, as a new sensation kicked in. Reid’s head had been filled with his thoughts while he was on his back, but now it actually hurt.