Mansour looked up, directly into Michael’s face. Tears now stained his cheeks, his hold on his emotions broken.

For once, there was no sign of conflict in his eyes. No distrust. Only pain.

‘My sister,’ he replied, his voice breaking as he forced out the words. ‘Our sister. They have her. What I did? This was price for her delivery.’

Michael could see the genuine despair on his face. And he knew then that Duffy had been right: this man needed their help.

‘OK, Nizar. I think you’d better start at the beginning.’

TWENTY-THREE

‘W ell, no one can say we lied to the lad, eh? We said it’d be quick.’

Will Duffy stepped forward as Michael watched Mansour disappear behind the dock door and head back towards the cells. The hearing was over. It had taken all of five minutes.

‘Stupid quirk of the system that it even comes here at all,’ Michael replied with a sigh. ‘But at least we can start the real fun and games in Woolwich tomorrow.’

‘You reckon?’ Duffy did not sound convinced.

‘Nah,’ Michael admitted, a smile spreading across his face. ‘But I have to lie to myself to face that train journey to Plumstead.’

The two men walked towards the back of the court as they spoke, to the heavy double doors that sat to the right of the public gallery. As they passed through, Michael spotted two reporters he recognised.

‘Word’s out,’ he said, indicating towards them with his head.

‘And then some,’ Duffy replied, pointing towards the window as they stepped through a second set of heavy doors and onto the concourse.

Every waiting area on every floor of the building looked out onto the glass frontage of Westminster Magistrates’ Court. It allowed for a clear view of the entrance from every level. And from here on the first floor, they could see that Sarah and Benson were no longer alone.

‘Damn.’ Michael counted seven cameras already, each accompanied by their on-screen reporter. ‘That’s quicker than I thought it’d be. Has to be a tip-off from court staff.’

‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ Duffy said with a smile.

‘Pots and kettles, eh?’ Michael replied. ‘Anyway, it’s not me who’ll be running the press gauntlet by the time we’re out of here. You might want to check your make-up before we leave.’

‘A natural beauty like me?’ Duffy laughed. ‘I—’

Michael raised his hand before Duffy could say any more. Duffy turned to see what Michael was looking at. A man in a black suit had followed them from the courtroom and was now striding towards them.

The man was around Michael’s height but younger. Perhaps by as much as a decade. As he came closer the strength that was hidden by his tailored suit became more evident. Michael could not miss the tell-tale bulges of honed muscle, pressing out against the fabric.

The confident stride was almost admirable.

‘Michael Devlin.’

The man spoke with the self-assured American accent that suited his every physical detail. So much so that Michael had almost expected it.