No answer. No change.

‘Did you make it yourself?’

Nothing.

‘Did someone make it for you?’

It was as if Mansour was not even hearing the words.

‘Was it your roommate then? The dead guy? Did he make the bomb?’

Mansour did not let out a sound, but his body betrayed him. He visibly winced at the mention of the other man.

Bull filed the reaction mentally. They would be circling back to that one . . .

He continued.

‘So either you made that bomb, or your dead pal did.’ The repeated mention did not get the same response; this time Mansour held himself together. ‘Or someone else?’

Mansour’s eyes stayed down. His body still.

‘And you’re not telling me where you got the Semtex?’

Bull didn’t even wait for an answer.

‘OK. Let’s move on a little, then. You’ve got the bomb. But how did you get it on the plane?’

The questions were coming thick and fast. Designed both to irritate and to leave Mansour with little opportunity to think. And the last one had caused an almost imperceptible shake of Mansour’s head.

Bull was getting somewhere.

I might not break you. But I’ll sure as hell get under your skin.

‘What was it, Nizar?’ he continued. ‘Did you send someone on with the bag? Did some other poor sod have to sacrifice himself for the cause?’

Mansour took a deep breath, seeming to realise that his head had been shaking. The movement stopped.

‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve got a bunch of young believers involved in all this, to do your dying for you. Someone on the plane with a bomb. So what does that make you, Nizar? The holy leader? The mini-Ayatollah? Sending these kids out to die while you’re safe at home, ready to walk in here and take the credit? Is that what this is? Is this you making yourself a hero to your people? Off the backs of gullible idiots willing to die for you? Like that poor sod at your house with his throat slit.’

His reaction was more obvious this time. Almost a physical recoil. Bull could see the effort it was taking for Mansour to keep himself in check. It was causing his hands to shake.

Bull suspected what had caused the changed reaction. The dead man at Mansour’s address. He was on the right track.

Bull opened his mouth to continue. He was interrupted by a knock on the interview room door.

The stocky officer opened the door before Bull could respond to the knock.

‘Guv? A word?’

Bull hesitated. He did not welcome the interruption, but the look on the man’s face said that he should listen.

‘One second, Nizar.’

He climbed to his feet and took the two short steps to the door.

‘What is it?’ Bull spoke as quietly as he could, his face uncomfortably close to the other man’s wide features.

‘It’s the Americans, guv.’ The voice was even quieter than Bull’s. ‘They’re here.’