From out of nowhere, Priest felt a sharp blow to his side. At first he thought he might have been shot but then he realised someone had clattered into him at full pelt and the impact had sent him flying across the pavement. He heard Georgie scream but it was too late – Priest careered into the old men and their pints, bringing the table down to the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood.

To cries of anguish, the old men fell backwards, taking their beers with them. Priest felt a sharp pain in one of his arms but he ignored it, righting himself as quickly as he could to see what had hit him. He was ready for another blow, fists clenched, his body deluged with adrenaline, but none came. Just the fading sound of footsteps on the pavement and the curses of the old men.

‘He took the phone!’ Georgie yelled, pointing up the street in panic.

Priest took a moment to register what she was saying but then, realising his assailant had neatly dispossessed him of Simeon’s phone, he heaved the broken table out of the way before sprinting up the street.

Priest’s upper body strength and weight meant he was not the fastest of runners but knowing he was so tantalisingly close to the answer urged him onwards; the distance his attacker had created was already starting to slip away. He was wearing a dark hoodie and tracksuit bottoms, under average height, much smaller than Priest but his success in bringing the lawyer to the ground had been more luck than judgement – another day and another angle and the phone thief would have just bounced off him.

With a furious cry, Priest put his head down and powered forward, taking one stride for every two of the thief’s. Oh, no you don’t!

At the bottom of the road, the thief took a left, crashing into a line of mopeds outside a college and sending them toppling like a line of dominoes in Priest’s path. He cleared the first two in one leap but caught his front foot under the third. A teenager was standing on the pavement opposite waving his arms in the air frantically and screaming in Spanish.

‘Fuck it!’ Priest snarled.

Realising he didn’t have time to free his foot, Priest kicked the bike as hard as he could. Pain shot up his leg but it was enough to send the moped spiralling across the street to a torrent of Spanish abuse. The next few strides on his right leg were agony but since he was still upright he guessed he hadn’t broken anything. Ahead, the thief had restored some of his lead and was heading downhill, narrowly avoiding a black cab pulling out of a junction.