Hesitated.

‘Now, son,’ said Carr, clapping his boy on the shoulder, and flashing him a savage grin. ‘Come with me, and I’ll show you where the Iron Crosses grow.’

In spite of himself, George grinned, and felt his fear melting away at his father’s certainty. And then John Carr was off and running towards the sound of the shooting, against the thinning tide of people, past dozens of white, multi-million dollar yachts bobbing at anchor, seagulls whirling overhead, oblivious, as though this was a day like any other.

In a matter of moments, the two men had reached the low wall in front of the sands.

They crouched behind it.

‘Safety off,’ said Carr.

‘Safety off.’

They peered over.

Beyond was a scene of almost unimaginable carnage.

Dozens of people lay dead or dying on the beach.

Two pairs of killers.

One pair, thirty metres away to their left.

Slowly edging backwards on to the sand, covering approach routes from the town.

As the Carrs watched, one of them leaned over a teenaged boy who was trying to crawl away.

Shot him in the head.

The second pair, forty metres to their right.

Levelling their weapons at four people.

Four of the Brits from earlier, Carr realised.

Not far from where he and Alice had been sitting.

But none of them was Alice.

And now, with a three-round burst into the chest, one of them killed the only male of the group.

The other grabbed the middle girl – the tall blonde in the shocking pink bikini – by the scruff of her neck, and started half-dragging, half-pulling her off the beach.

His mate got behind the other women and pushed them after him.

Shouting, Yallah imshi! Yallah imshi!

Hurry the fuck up!

Carr looked at George. ‘Can you see Alice and Chloe?’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Please God,’ breathed Carr.

He was not a religious man, and he didn’t see the inside of a church from one funeral to the next, but plenty of men find time to say a quick prayer when the rounds start flying.

Every man says a prayer when they’re flying around his baby girl.

‘What do we do?’ said George.

Carr thought for a second or two.

His lengthy secondment to the Det in Northern Ireland had left him an outstanding pistol shot, that being the primary weapon of the surveillance operator, but if he engaged the further pair to his right at this range… The best shot in the world would be just as likely to kill the three women.

Whereas the closer pair, to the left, were actually edging his way.

Plus which, they were focused on the streets, not on what was behind them.

No-brainer.

‘Those two first,’ he said. ‘Then we get after the others.’ He turned to his son, and winked. ‘Hold your fire until they get as close as possible, and if it all goes to shit I’ll see you in Valhalla.’

‘Bollocks to that,’ said George. ‘One of these days it’s got to be your round, and I’m not missing that for anything.’