‘As you’ll now be aware,’ she said, her voice strong and clear, ‘my daughter Charlotte was one of three women kidnapped from the beach at Puerto Banús on Wednesday, in the wicked attack in which so many innocent people were killed. You will also be aware that one of the three, Charlotte’s dear friend Emily Souster, was later murdered in Morocco. You may have seen the images, which were released yesterday via the internet. I urge people not to share those images. The grief which Emily’s friends and family are feeling at this terrible news is almost indescribable, and our hearts and prayers go out to them all.’

She cleared her throat and looked at the huge throng of TV cameras, blinking in their lights.

‘Yesterday evening, Emily’s body was recovered from Morocco’s Mediterranean coast, and we are grateful to the King and his Prime Minister for allowing us to mount that operation. Their country has been for many years a key ally of the United Kingdom, and their assistance is, as ever, invaluable.’

This would be news to the King Mohammed and his PM – the Moroccan ambassador to London had only just been woken to be informed of the SBS mission to Al Hoceima – but His Majesty and the politicians had more to lose than most at the hands of the insurgent groups in the region, and Penelope Morgan was confident that it would give them the face-saving space they needed.

And if it didn’t – well, that was just tough shit.

‘We still have two British citizens outstanding. We will do whatever we can to recover them both alive, and we are working with intelligence agencies around the world to bring to justice the men responsible for this heinous crime. Thank you.’

She turned away, the air filled with clamouring shouts from a hundred or more journalists.

One stood out above the rest: ‘Are we going to pay a ransom, Prime Minister?’

Penelope Morgan turned back. ‘I know my press secretary said I’d take no questions,’ she said, ‘but I will just deal with this one. We have as yet had no ransom demands from the kidnappers, but you’ll all be aware of the British government’s longstanding policy on hostages and ransoms. We won’t bend any rules, just because my daughter is involved.’

She almost felt herself blush as she turned back to the doorway.

Chapter 54.

54.

LATER THAT MORNING, Justin Nicholls left his office at Vauxhall Cross, walked out onto Kennington Lane, and flagged down a black cab.

The traffic was unusually light, but it still took twenty minutes to cover the five miles to Putney High Street.

After the taxi dropped him, it was a ten-minute walk to the grace-and-favour London home of the Director Special Forces, Mark Topham.