As they swung into the car park, they’d expected to find full-scale fighting in progress, or at least a few bodies strewing the tarmac. But none of that was in evidence. Only one or two cars were there – which was probably about normal for early afternoon on a Wednesday – but one of these was a divisional patrol car, which was parked skew-whiff across two bays, its driver’s door hanging open. Harry cruised warily forward, only for three men to come sauntering out of the building’s front door.

Lucy’s immediate impression was that this was no group she’d like to cross.

The first two were white guys, but stood a minimum six-foot-three and were almost as big across the chest and shoulders as they were tall. The first was bearded, the second clean-shaved, but their faces – what she could see of them, because they wore hoodies and baseball caps, with the hoods pulled up over the top – were hard, angular and fixed in concrete frowns.

Her second impression was that she recognised the third member of the trio. This guy, about ten yards behind the others, was black and shaven-headed. He was taller than the other two, about six-five, and quite a bit leaner but very muscular, as revealed by his green string-vest. If this wasn’t threatening enough, he was carrying what looked like a broken-in-half snooker cue.

Despite the cautious advance of Harry’s BMW, complete with flashing beacon on its roof, the threesome walked casually around the abandoned police car towards a blue Hyundai Civic parked in the far corner. The bearded white guy produced a fob and unlocked it, and he and the second white guy climbed in. The black guy walked after them, but as he did, he very casually, as though it made no difference to him in the world, launched the snooker cue in Lucy and Harry’s general direction.

It clattered across Harry’s windscreen, inflicting a massive spider-web crack.

Harry almost choked with rage. ‘What … what the fuck!’

He rammed his foot down, gunning his BMW across the tarmac, tyres blistering as it homed in on the missile thrower.

‘Harry, that’s Leon Royton!’ Lucy shouted, as it came to her. ‘He’s a Crew enforcer.’

‘Was a fucking Crew enforcer!’ Harry retorted.

Despite his size, Royton danced dexterously aside, just managing to evade the speeding car, before falling and rolling. Harry yanked at his handbrake, the BMW pulling a screeching one-eighty turn, so that when it came to a rest they were facing the snooker hall. A fourth figure had now appeared from the building, leaning sideways against the door frame. It was Don Cooper, the PC who’d answered the emergency call; the entire front of his T-shirt and stab-vest had been torn open, and his face was a mask of glutinous blood.