The three cops extricated themselves from the vehicle, trying to shield their eyes from the dazzling lights. Gillard shouted for Tickett to turn the headlamps off and then lie on the ground. He guessed there was zero chance of this happening. ‘Lie on the ground,’ Dearing bellowed, while Craven was just fitting a new cartridge into his Taser.

Tickett picked his moment and crossed the few yards between them in two strides. The fist on Dearing’s jaw seem to lift him right across the bonnet of the Ford, colliding with and unbalancing Craven, who dropped the Taser. Gillard leapt and grabbed Tickett’s right arm, but the big man swung him around, trying to reach him with his left. Dearing seemed to be unconscious, Craven scrambling to pick up his weapon. Gillard dodged a left hook, but the following jab caught him straight in the ribs and knocked the breath out of him. At that moment Craven yelled ‘Taser’ and discharged the weapon. Gillard, still hanging on to Tickett’s right arm, felt a searing jolt of electricity which seemed to jerk him away. Tickett fell too, but was already getting up when Craven fired a second time. Unconnected to the target now, Gillard was able to jump on the big man as he screamed from the second charge. But even with Craven’s help, keeping Typhoon Tickett on the deck was no easy task. It was five minutes of undignified wrestling before the eventual arrival of Dearing, now properly conscious, which allowed them to handcuff him.

It was only when Tickett was finally installed in the back of the patrol car that Gillard had a moment to inspect himself and found drops of blood all over his shirt and jacket. For a few moments he looked for a stab wound that he hadn’t felt, but then he saw Dearing’s face. That was where the blood had come from. His nose was pouring.

At Winchester Police Station, the Ticketts were cautioned then kept in separate cells, as far away from each other as possible. It was gone eight a.m. by the time a duty solicitor was found so Gillard could interview them. In the intervening time he’d heard that Typhoon had been living up to his name, periodically throwing himself bodily at the door. The other two had been quieter. Christopher Tickett was brought up first. Gillard sat with Rainy Macintosh as the brief arrived. He wasn’t one of the generic duty types, but a distinguished-looking fellow called Piers Tolliver from a top Winchester firm. Gillard knew he would be expensive, and realised that Tickett probably had more money than he imagined.

‘So, Christopher. Bring back some happy memories does it?’ Gillard gestured at the bleak surroundings.

‘Fuck off,’ he replied. ‘And you can quote me on that,’ he added, glancing at his brief.

‘Whereabouts is Kelvin Arrowsmith, Christopher?’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’