RaSP was Royalty and Specialist Protection, the Met Police element charged with protecting the Prime Minister and her family, among others.

‘She’d turned them down, apparently. Said she wanted to “live her life”.’

Nicholls was silent for a moment.

Then he said, ‘They must have targeted her. The whole thing, this was what the Málaga distraction was all about. It was aimed at seizing her.’

‘It certainly looks that way,’ said Palmer.

‘Her boyfriend’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does Downing Street know?’

‘It hasn’t broken with the media yet. But…’

‘But she’ll have known Charlie was out there,’ said Nicholls. ‘So she’ll have tried to get in touch with her. And…’

‘That was what I was thinking,’ said Palmer.

Nicholls was silent for a moment.

Then he said, ‘I’ll have to break it to the PM. Can you get me the latest from Ceuta? Last thing I saw, the boat was spread over a couple of acres and they were looking for bodies.’

‘Will do.’

‘Do you have someone getting alongside the surviving couple? We want whatever they have ASAP.’

‘The Málaga officer’s on his way.’

‘Good. Thanks, Alec.’

Nicholls ended the call and dialled his assistant.

‘I’m just going to see the chief, Hugo,’ he said. ‘Can you get me a car, please? When I’m finished upstairs I’ll need to go over to Downing Street.’

31.

THE MI6 INTELLIGENCE officer arrived at the Puente Romano hotel, on the Bulevar Príncipe Alfonso von Hohenlohe, just as Justin Nicholls climbed into the car to take him to Downing Street.

He was a nondescript Welshman in his early thirties, who went by the name of ‘Liam’, and who worked – officially – in a back office notarial role in the Málaga consulate.

In reality, his job was to mooch around the place finding out what he could about serious organised crime that might lead back to the UK and assessing and updating the regional terrorism picture.

Thomas Carter answered his knock.

He looked shell-shocked.

‘My name’s Liam Smith, sir,’ said the MI6 officer. ‘From the consulate. May I come in?’

‘It’s not a good time,’ said Carter. ‘We…’

‘I’m afraid I do just need to come in,’ said Liam, firmly.

He stepped in, past Tom Carter’s weak protests.

It was cool inside. Jemima Craig was lying on the blue-and-gold brocade counterpane, her eyes puffy and red, a tissue in her left hand.

‘She’s in no fit state to talk,’ said Carter.

The MI6 man turned to face him.

‘I’m here on the instructions of the Prime Minister herself, sir,’ he said, very firmly. ‘I need to talk to you about your missing friends.’

‘Let him speak, Tom,’ said Jemima, from the bed.

Tom Carter’s shoulders relaxed. He sat down next to his girlfriend and looked up at Liam, his eyes strained and unbelieving.

‘What do you want to know?’ he said.

‘I need as much information about what happened today as possible.’

The couple both said nothing.

‘I know it’s tough,’ said Liam. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ He pulled out a notebook. ‘You’ve been here for four days, yes?’