Lucy leapt out of the car, but didn’t run over to him; she had an inkling what was coming next. ‘Don?’ she shouted.

It took vital seconds for Cooper to recognise the blue light on top of the BMW, and to focus on Lucy.

‘Get … those three bastards!’ he stammered. ‘GBH’d two lads in here … really bad … gave me a tonking too …’

His words dissipated under a massive rending of gears from the other side of the car park.

Lucy turned around as the Hyundai, now carrying all three suspects, spun through its own rubber-melting semicircle and bulleted out of the lot, hitting the road with such speed that vehicles forty yards away braked to screeching halts.

‘Lucy, get in!’ Harry barked.

‘Go!’ Cooper shouted. ‘I’ll be okay!’

Lucy jumped back in, while Harry lugged the BMW’s wheel around.

‘DC Clayburn to November Four, urgent message!’ she shouted into her radio.

‘Go ahead, Lucy.’

She relayed as much info as she could, summoning ambulances but at the same time describing the offence, the target vehicle and the suspects, naming Leon Royton, who was well known to police forces across the north-west, and because of his usual connections, requesting firearms support.

Meanwhile, Harry wove smoothly but dangerously through the traffic on Peak Street, blues and twos fully activated. The Hyundai was visible about a hundred yards ahead, waiting at a set of lights; they closed on it rapidly. As a police officer, Harry Jepson had many flaws, but his driving wasn’t one of them. A British Cadet Kart champion in his youth and a junior recruit to the McLaren Young Driver Support Programme before he chucked it all in to join the cops, he now had a reputation for being exceptionally good behind the wheel.

But as with so many other things he did in life, he was inclined to take risks.

Lucy secured her belt and braced for impact, as, with reams of cars bottled up ahead of them, Harry cut left onto the pavement, which thankfully was empty of pedestrians – though she didn’t see how he’d had the time to check that – and sped forward, separated only from the main traffic by a single crash-barrier, flying past one shopfront after another.

‘Harry, for Christ’s sake!’ she shouted.

‘I’ll teach the bastards,’ he snarled. ‘Smashing my fucking windscreen.’

Forty yards ahead, the Hyundai, its driver spotting the fast-approaching police car, jerked through the red light, causing vehicles to shriek and swerve, and spun a sharp left.

‘Suspect vehicle left onto Danson Road,’ Lucy shouted, interrupting the dirge on the radio. ‘No index yet, over.’

‘Bastards!’ Harry said.