After they drove off Billy went back into the house while I stood there watching the sun go down over the rooftops of Wembley, the last rays of the day glinting on the great white arch of the stadium that looms above everything in that part of town. It was only eight in the evening but already the day was done and there was a chill in the air that hadn’t been there for months. Yes, summer was almost over now. I knew Scout felt as if it had gone on forever. But to me the season had passed in the blink of an eye.

I walked down to the young copper at the end of the street.

‘PC Rocastle? I’ve got the graveyard shift. We’re going to be in the house.’

‘I’m on until midnight.’

I watched him hesitate.

‘What’s on your mind, officer?’ I said.

‘You really think they might come back, sir?’ he said.

I pointed at the unmarked ARV parked outside the big council house.

‘If they do,’ I said, ‘they better be ready to start shooting.’

The street was emptying as I walked back to the house. A middle-aged white woman and man were walking their German Shepherd. I nodded to them. They ignored me. I smiled at the dog’s proud face and reached down to pet him.

And the woman spat as we passed each other.

A great glob of saliva glistened on the pavement between us. I stopped and stared at their backs. I saw tattoos on white flesh. And I saw their glances back – the man afraid, the woman more willing to show her contempt.

They don’t get it, I thought. They have no clue what we do.

Without fear or favour, we protect everyone.

I had taken the watch in the living room at the front of the house and Billy was in the back garden. I stared beyond the net curtains as Abu Din reclined in his long grey robes and watched me.

‘Who are those men parked outside my home?’ he said.

‘They’re police officers who are trained in the use of firearms.’

He laughed. When I turned to look at him, Abu Din gazed at me with great amusement.

‘You don’t seem very worried about the threat to your life, Mr Din.’

‘Because there is no threat to my life. It is not my time for shaheed. Hasn’t that been proved already?’

‘Shaheed means martyr, right?’

‘Literally shaheed means witness. But yes – shaheed is the tribute we pay to believers who die fulfilling their religious commitments. Their place in paradise is assured.’

‘Maybe you were just lucky.’

He stopped smiling.

‘There’s no luck needed, alhamdulilah. All praise be to God. I have tawakul – reliance on God – so I do not fear shaytan.’

‘It must be nice to have such faith.’

He looked at me coldly. ‘And it must be hell to live without it.’