Someone was thrusting a free newspaper into his arm. ‘KATIE RALLY TO BRING LONDON TO A STANDSTILL’ blared the headline. Porter pushed it aside, and the paper dropped to the ground. At his side, a man was shoving him. Porter shoved him back. You expected more respect than that when you were wearing a suit as smart as this one, he told himself.

He walked swiftly across the concourse. Even after eight it was still thronging with people. He glanced a couple of times at the station pub, and the guys with beers in their hands milling around outside. No, he told himself. They’ll smell it on your breath. Don’t blow it.

Out on the street, a blast of cold air hit him in the face. The Jaguar was waiting for him across the road, the driver sitting reading the sports pages. Porter stepped onto the road, glancing left. He could see a black Vauxhall Astra pulling out of a parking space. Suddenly he heard a roar as the driver gunned the engine. For a second, Porter caught a glimpse of the man’s eyes. An Arab, late twenties, with a stubby beard.

The car was picking up speed.

And driving hard. Straight into him.

Instinctively, he pulled back, crashing into the man behind him.

The car kept coming. The driver veered left, pushing the wheels up onto the pavement, still heading straight for him. In the same instant, Porter dragged his foot away.

The car missed him by only a couple of centimetres. Porter watched as the Astra sped away. Someone just tried to kill me, he thought.

Porter tried to concentrate, struggling to make sense of the attempt on his life. But his brain was too groggy to focus. The drugs were still playing havoc with his system, leaving him dizzy and confused. Just get back to base, he told himself.

He straightened himself up, and climbed into the back of the waiting Jag: the driver had been too engrossed in his paper to even notice anything had happened. The drive back to Vauxhall didn’t take long. Layla was waiting for him in the entrance foyer. She asked how his daughter was, but Porter just brushed aside the questions, telling her that he needed some rest.

Back in the room, he splashed some water onto his face. He rummaged around in the bathroom cabinet, but there were no bandages or plasters, not even any disinfectant. They hadn’t even left him a razor blade, just an electric shaver: they obviously didn’t want him getting his hands on anything that could be used as a weapon.

‘You need a jab,’ said Danni.

He spun round. She was standing in the doorway, still dressed in the nurse’s uniform, a syringe in her hand.

‘I need a drink,’ said Porter.

‘We all need a drink after a day in this place,’ said Danni, striding towards him.

‘What’s in that?’ he asked, nodding towards the syringe.

‘More antibiotics,’ said Danni. ‘The doctor says you need them for another twenty-four hours. There’s still a lot of rubbish to clear out of your system.’