He clapped Jeremy on the arm and was already off to interrogate the chief policeman about whether they’d searched the surrounding houses. Once he’d vexed as many policemen as he came into contact with, he began to wind up the already skittish crowd. By the time their bus arrived, they were yelling and whooping with volatile hilarity. As they stowed their luggage, they shouted:

‘Big bag, Nick, how many bombs you got in there?’

‘What’s that scruffy piece of shit suitcase? It looks like you’ve dragged it all the way from Syria.’

‘Who let this man in here? He’s obviously a female jihadi in disguise. Police! Police! Take him away!’

‘Did that cop just whisper “Allahu Akbar”? Did he just whisper “Allahu Akbar”? Bomber! Bomber!’

The crowd surged nervously.

‘Last chance to run away! Go find where Lauren’s hiding and get in next to her.’

‘I wouldn’t hide next to Lauren; she’s probably shat herself already.’

And there was a resounding cheer, to his acute embarrassment, as Will, the only one who’d come in casual clothes, assuming they’d change when they got there, heaved Rosie’s pastel-pink suitcase into the side of the bus.

They boarded, aiming ostentatiously breezy greetings at the two armed policemen awkwardly riding shotgun in the front seats and at the phlegmatic driver, who’d seen worse. They argued excitedly about which seats would be safest if the bus was blown up and pretend-fought about who got to sit nearest the exit. While they were still squabbling, the bus juddered and moved off, to a chorus of hurrahs from the back. While the driver manoeuvred past the barriers and on to the main road, the chief braced himself in the aisle and, conducting with his hands, led everyone but Max and the policemen in roaring out:

‘It’s a long way to Tipperaaaary,

it’s a long way to go.’

They beat time on the big plastic windows with the flats of their hands, and bawled:

‘It’s a long way to Tipperaaa-aaary,

to the sweetest girl I know.

So goodbye Piccadiiiiiilly,

Farewell Leicester Square…’

The bus accelerated heavily up the hill, passing smart antique shops, the flat white faces of stuccoed rows, and restaurants named after towns in Italy and France, then turned left at Notting Hill and on to the highway leading west out of London.

The chief dropped hard into the seat next to Jez, who was by himself because Max had decided to sit behind the driver and study the morning’s papers. Will was in front of them and jumped in his place when the chief grabbed his shoulder. The chief cackled. ‘Don’t be so jittery, greenhorn; we’ll be safely in the Home Counties soon enough. Look at this.’