‘Jack really suits a uniform,’ Rebus said.

‘Clothes maketh the man.’

‘You reckon your boss has got it right?’

He meant Claverhouse’s plan: when the truck was in the compound, they’d use a megaphone and show the marksmen to whoever was in the driver’s cab, tell them to come out. The rest of the men could stay locked in the back of the vehicle. They’d have them toss out any arms and then come out one at a time.

It was either that or wait until they were all out of the truck. Merit of this second plan: they’d know what they were dealing with. Merit of the first: most of the gang would be nicely stowed in the truck, and could be dealt with as and when.

Claverhouse had plumped for plan one.

Marked and unmarked cars were to move in as soon as the truck had come to a stop - engine off - in the compound. They would block the exit, then watch from safety while Claverhouse, at a firstfloor window with his megaphone, and the marksmen (roof; ground floor windows) did their stuff. ‘Negotiation with force’ was how Claverhouse had described it.

‘Jack’s opening the gates,’ Rebus said, peering through the side window.

Engine roar, and the truck jerked forward.

‘Driver seems a bit nervous,’ Clarke commented.

‘Or isn’t used to HGVs.’

‘Okay, they’re in.’

Rebus stared at the radio, willing it to burst into life. Clarke had turned the ignition one click away from starting. Jack Morton was watching the truck move into the compound. He turned his head towards the line of cars parked across the way.

‘Any second ...’

The truck’s brake-lights came on, then went off again. Air-brakes sounded.

The radio fizzed a single word: ‘Nom!’ Clarke turned the engine, revved hard. Five other cars did the same. Exhaust smoke billowed suddenly into the night air. The noise was like the start of a stock-car race. Rebus wound his window down, the better to hear Claverhouse’s megaphone diplomacy. Clarke’s car leaped forward, first to the gates. Both she and Rebus jumped out, keeping their heads down, the car a shield between themselves and the truck.

‘Engine’s still running,’ Rebus hissed.

‘What?’

‘The truck. Its engine’s still running!’ Claverhouse’s voice, warbling - partly nerves, partly megaphone quality: ‘Armed police. Open the cab doors slowly and come out one at a time, hands held high. I repeat: armed police. Discard weapons before coming out. I repeat: discard weapons.’

‘Do it!’ Rebus hissed. Then: ‘Tell them to switch off the bloody engine!’ Claverhouse: ‘The gate is blocked, there’s no escape, and we don’t want anyone getting hurt.’

‘Tell them to throw out the keys.’

Cursing, Rebus dived back into the car, grabbed the handset. ‘Claverhouse, tell them to ditch the bloody keys!’ Windscreen frosted over; he couldn’t see a thing. Heard Clarke’s yell: ‘Get out!’ Saw: dim white lights. The truck was reversing. At speed. A roar from its engine, veering crazily but heading for the gates.