‘What can you tell us, Sir Perry?’ asked Boulton.

Collinson pursed his lips and furrowed his brow thoughtfully. He conjured up an air of seriousness. ‘There’s only so much we can say at this stage, Adam,’ he began. ‘We don’t know who has taken Katie Dartmouth, where they’ve taken her, or what they want. But the PM has asked me to take full charge of the investigation, and I can assure you that every muscle we possess will be strained to bring Katie back safely.’

‘And you really don’t have any clue where she is?’

Collinson shook his head. ‘At this stage, I’m afraid there is nothing firm to go on. All of our efforts, however, will be devoted to getting her back. There may be testing hours and days ahead, but together we will pull through them.’

As Porter watched the screen, he pondered how much better the years had been to Collinson than they had been to him. After coming back from the raid in Lebanon, he knew he’d never been able to get himself back on the level again. The physical damage to his hand healed in time, but the mental damage remained as fresh and raw as if he’d been wounded only yesterday. He’d done his best to reintegrate himself back into the Regiment, but all the men seemed to know that Porter was the guy who’d spared the life of an Arab kid who had then killed three of their men. They didn’t say anything to his face, but then they didn’t need to. He could see it in their eyes. He could feel it in the way he was shunned in the bar. He could sense it in the way no one was ever going to trust him again. When the chips were down, no one could count on John Porter. And the Regiment didn’t have much space for those who couldn’t be relied on.

Within three years, he’d left active service, and been put on firing-range duty: there was no more humiliating posting for a Regiment man. After another couple of years, he’d left the army completely. The only career he’d ever planned for himself was over. How do you put your life back together after something like that? Porter wondered. If there was an answer, he’d never found it.

Porter could suddenly feel a hand on his shoulder. As he spun round, Dan was looking straight at him. ‘I thought I told you to piss off.’

‘I’m just –’ started Porter.

‘You’re just stinking the place up,’ snapped Dan. ‘Now scarper before I call the police and get you banged up for the night.’

Porter was about to say something, but the words stalled on his lips. The aching in his head was terrible, and the pain in his left leg was growing worse: a tingling sensation, that seemed to numb him all the way up to the knee. With his head bowed, he started walking.

‘The bloody back door,’ shouted Dan.