At the last moment it veered into the darkness and away from me, a blur of speed and steel, a silver train with red doors and blue trim and a driver who caught a glimpse of me for a fraction of a section.

And stared as if I had been raised from the dead.

The driver must have called it in immediately.

I knew that any 999 call from the public about a possible armed or terrorist incident would be forwarded instantly to the Tactical Firearms Command desk where someone with the rank of inspector or above would assess the information to see if it fit the criteria for armed officers to respond. And I did.

By the time I climbed the tube station’s long and winding staircase up to the street, they were waiting for me.

Armed officers from SC&O19.

They didn’t think I was a ghost.

They thought I was a terrorist.

As I stepped out into the warm summer night, they started screaming at me. I could not tell where the voices were coming from but I could feel the adrenaline in the air. Then I saw their raised weapons. The Glock pistols. The Heckler and Koch submachine guns.

‘Hands in the air and get down on your knees!’

‘I am DC Wolfe of West End Central and I am complying with your command,’ I said, as calm and clear as I could make it.

‘Do it now! Do it now!’

I raised my hands and got down on my knees, the pavement surprisingly cold in the warm summer night.

Then I saw them.

Edging towards me, fingers on the triggers.

‘There’s a wallet in my right pocket which contains my warrant card,’ I said, still as calm and clear as I could make it, but finding it harder to sound like the voice of reason with my face pressed against the pavement.

Someone pushed a boot heel against the back of my neck. A pair of hands patted me down and another pair of hands went through my pockets. I lifted my lower body very slightly so they could remove my wallet.

‘Don’t move! Don’t move!’

I felt the barrel of a Glock screw itself into my ear.

I held my breath. I did not move.

But even after they saw my warrant card they kept my face pressed to the pavement and my limbs spread wide. Even after they clocked my photo ID they kept me face down on the ground with a size-12 boot heel pressed firmly against the back of my neck.

And they kept me there for a long time.

It was as if nobody could be trusted any more, as if the world had gone insane, as if you never knew who might want to dance on your grave.

Part Three

PART THREE

ApparatuS of DEath

26

The view from the top of New Scotland Yard is spectacular.