‘The Met insist they were acting on flashed intelligence about a purported mobile bomb factory in the back of a Transit van, also carrying a passenger suggested to be a returnee from Syria. Their source, not one of ours, you’ll be glad to know.’

Woolf looked round the table. The assembly stared back at him.

Ferris, group director for the north-east, chipped in: ‘We get about a hundred and fifty false leads like that a day. Does there have to be a conspiracy here?’

Woolf nodded eagerly. He was in his stride now. ‘Quite so. But here’s the thing.’ He punched up another slide: a middle-aged man in a police uniform. ‘SCO19 control room officer: John Philip Vestey.’ The next shot showed both men.

‘Mick’s brother. He was on duty the night of the shooting – though unable to communicate with his team on the ground due to an alleged radio fault. Make of that what you will.’

Woolf stood back to let this revelation sink in. Now the room came alive.

‘Are you watching him? Mick.’

Woolf smiled ruefully. ‘You know how many bodies surveillance takes.’ He pointed at Cindy and Rafiq. ‘This is the sum total of my team.’

‘Listening to his calls?’

Cindy shook her head. ‘He doesn’t use a phone.’

‘Ever?’

‘Turns it on every couple of days for just a few minutes. The rest of the time it’s off and he leaves it at home.’

‘Somewhat incriminating.’

Jedburgh, ex-Special Branch and a notorious sceptic, launched in: ‘So you’ve got a classic loner, who’s conquered his demons and trained himself to channel his rage. What’s holding him back? Chances are that having started he’ll probably keep shooting. I suggest you pull your finger out and bring him in before he does any more damage.’

Mandler agreed. ‘Good point. Keep them coming.’

Molly Downham, the only other woman in the group, never spoke up unless she had something pertinent to say. ‘James, can you share with us exactly why you’ve been playing your cards even closer to your chest than usual?’

Woolf nodded. ‘That brings me neatly on to part two. We’ve covered the who, but now comes the why. Why kill a perfectly decent liberal-minded community worker who’s been commended for his work with disaffected youth?’ He leaned forward and hit the space bar again. ‘Recognize him?’

The next sequence was a video of a man in his early thirties standing at a podium, receiving an award from the Mayor of London in front of an audience, who were giving him a standing ovation. ‘Vernon Rolt, founder of Invicta.’

‘So his facility is being used as a secret training ground for white British jihadis. That’s pretty far-fetched, isn’t it?’

Woolf glanced at the other two. ‘Yes. It’s crazy and everyone who’s heard it agrees.’

It was Molly’s turn again. ‘Are you actually pointing the finger at Vernon Rolt?’