Tom didn’t feel that it was over, but he had no concrete reason for thinking that. Just as he was reflecting on it, another of the forensics team yelled for quiet. Everything stopped.

The forensics guy was a small man in a disposable suit and shoe covers. He’d stepped back from a now pitted and scorched green-painted door. It was clearly reinforced, having taken the concussion wave of the blast and all the secondary missiles that the explosion would have ripped apart and hurled about the garage at supersonic speed.

The forensics guy put out a hand to open the door.

Tom grabbed Rafiq and pulled him with him as he instinctively stepped back. ‘Stop! Stop!’

It was too late. The door was open, but only to reveal darkness. The guy’s torch penetrated the gloom. ‘We’ve got a body,’ he said. ‘I think it’s alive.’

Tom let go of Rafiq and headed for the door. ‘Leave it! Don’t go in!’

He took the torch from him. ‘Get a couple of firearms guys.’

The forensics techie ran off and Tom scanned the darkness with the torch-beam. First impressions had been right. There was a body, face-down, feet towards the door, about three metres in.

And there was movement.

Shallow breathing.

Tom shone the torch on the soles of the feet, which were grimed with layers of filth as if their owner had walked through tar. He tilted the torch to try to get eyeson, see if the guy was reacting to the light. He couldn’t even tell if his eyes were open – it was the wrong angle. ‘You! You on the mattress! Sit up and show your hands!’

Tom got no reply. He quickly checked the doorframe, then around the narrow, damp concrete cell.

Two firearms officers turned up in full black gear, slightly out of breath with all the body armour on. They peered into the darkness.

‘I think he’s breathing but I’m getting no reaction to commands. I’ll go in, but here’s what I want you two to do.’

Tom rested his hand on the taller one’s shoulder. Physical contact was always good in these situations. It made things more personal: it meant they might go the extra mile if Tom landed up in the shit.

A small crowd had gathered in the doorway to look at the body. Tom kept his hand on the policeman’s shoulder, but directed himself at the crowd first. ‘If it’s booby-trapped, we’re all going to be history. You need to move out now, go on – go.’