‘We’re looking for what they don’t want us to see,’ he said.

At the back of the crowd I could see PC Rocastle, his heavyweight’s bulk standing directly in front of Philip Maldini in his wheelchair, his sister Piper behind him, her hands resting on her brother’s shoulders as he held up his placard.

My Country – Love It or Leave It.

And then it all kicked off.

PC Rocastle began to run, desperately shouting into the radio attached to his shoulder. Philip Maldini’s wheelchair lurched onto the pavement and his sister seemed to place herself between the young man and what was coming down the street. And then the crowd was getting off their knees.

Pointing. Shouting. Running for their lives.

The black transit van came into frame and seemed to aim itself at the crowd, suddenly mounting the pavement to avoid the Maldinis.

The transit van came to a halt.

The crowd was gone.

Abu Din was wagging a finger at the black van.

‘You can’t park that there, mate,’ Edie said, and we all laughed.

And then we stopped laughing as Albert Pierrepoint got out of the van. And another Albert Pierrepoint. The masked faces scanned the street. At the top of the screen I could see PC Rocastle, flat on his belly, calling it in. When he turned his head to check the street, you could see a third Albert Pierrepoint at the wheel of the transit van, gunning the engine.

‘Stop,’ Dr Joe said.

Edie hit a button and froze the frame.

In total silence we stared at the three Albert Pierrepoint masks on the screen.

Then Dr Joe spoke.

‘Those Albert Pierrepoint masks serve a dual purpose,’ he said. ‘They’re more than symbolic. Yes, the Hanging Club see themselves as justice incarnate. Yes, they see themselves as meting out punishment to the wicked. Yes, they believe they are the heirs of Pierrepoint. All of that is true. But those masks also serve a practical purpose – we focus on them. We look at the masks. They distract our eye. They sidetrack our senses. They’re a diversion.’

Professor Hitchens walked into MIR-1. He placed his motorbike helmet on his workstation and waddled off to the coffee machine. I walked to his workstation, picked up his motorbike helmet and threw it at him as hard as I could. It hit him high and hard and sent a fountain of cappuccino all over him.

‘You fucking maniac, Max!’

Then I was in his face.

‘You knew,’ I said. ‘You knew that it was Newgate, Professor. That little farce you played in here. And you knew. You knew from the start!’

He was backing away from me with sudden fear in his eyes.

‘No,’ Hitchens said. ‘No!’

Edie Wren and Billy Greene were grabbing my arms. I shrugged them off.