The next moment, a vituperative argument broke out between everyone at once. Each fought to make his or her point about what they’d just seen and, to varying degrees, participated in. Jeremy wondered gloomily whether yesterday’s reappearance of his journalistic powers had been a one-off. Will tried to calculate what it would cost him with the chief to have argued for Rosie, however briefly. But all made as much noise as possible, as if driving out shame.

The landlord kept telling the chief, ‘I hope you’ve had your fill. I hope you’ve had it,’ but the chief turned away from him. His phone was vibrating in his pocket and, as he pushed out past the edge of the little crowd, he crushed it awkwardly against the side of his head. He covered his other ear and listened. After a few seconds, he took the phone from his head and announced, ‘Shut up! Oi, be quiet!’ He spoke over the dwindling argument: ‘Lads, two of our favourite terror trannies have been shot to bits in Ruislip. One’s dead, the other’s full of holes and I hope being waterboarded as we speak.’

A cruel thrill ran through Jeremy. Max quickly checked the BBC website on his phone – there was nothing yet.

‘Middle bench and Anna, straight to the newsroom. Grunts, half three as usual. Hop to it. I’ll pay the tab. How much is it, Moonshine Mandy?’

The landlord said very distinctly, ‘I don’t want your money. Get out, and don’t come back here. You can tell your mates, too. Everyone from the Beast is barred.’

‘What happened to standing together against Islamic terror? Because if you’re not in favour of freedom, you’re against it.’

‘Out. And if I see you anywhere near here or near my staff again I’m calling the police.’

‘Well, thanks for the drinks. Next time we come, we can talk about why you had to leave the force. Did the prisoners keep falling over and hitting their heads? Or was it that the woman suspects’ clothes kept falling off?’

The landlord’s fury was inarticulate until long after the journalists were out through the door and hurrying back along the lane towards the bunker. Not one of them could resist glancing back to see whether they were being followed. Ayub may have seemed not to be a terrorist, but that didn’t mean no one else was.

By the time they passed the Bucklebury sign, BeastOnline had the story of the shooting up – riddled with typos and factual errors, but first in the world and including a photograph: a car pocked as if by a local meteor shower, the tyres flat, the windshield a rectangular hole, the entire frame listing into the road, and on the tarmac by the driver’s door a spattering of dark juice. The journalists walked faster.