Jia waited patiently outside the back door of Café de Khan. The restaurant was housed in a terraced row. The backyards were open, without fences or walls between, and customers often parked across the invisible boundaries.

It was some time before it opened, but it gave her the opportunity to put her car keys in her purse and look through the bag just long enough for the CCTV camera on the corner of the building to get a clear shot, and allow her entry. The game was officially in play.

On the worn stone steps of the Inner City Gym, in a dingy doorway, Razi Khan waited with his brother. Their eyes on the road, they watched as the ranks of men surrounding the English Defence League began to swell and turn nasty. A scuffle broke out between a skinhead and an Asian boy with a Scouse accent. Tempers flared and language became more and more colourful; others stepped forward and fell into the fight. Fists flew and heads were cracked; bottles of Newcastle Brown were smashed before being held out as assault weapons. Some cuts and bruises later, a group of policeman stepped in, pulling the men apart.

Back in the newsroom, Elyas and John tried to figure out what was happening. ‘What have we got?’ said Elyas. ‘I don’t understand how this happened without warning. And in the middle of winter!’ He was staring over John’s shoulder at his screen. The building buzzed with ringing phones and staff arriving, dropping their bags and switching on their computers; the quiet hum of a weekend newsroom had turned to a roar.

‘We’ve got several snappers and a couple of reporters on the scene,’ said John. ‘Guys in here are making calls and I’m on your social-networking sites.’ He was staring at the screen, scrolling down the list of tweets, Facebook messages, Instagram and Snapchat posts.

Elyas glanced around the room. Almost every journalist on the payroll was there. ‘Who called these guys in?’ he asked.

‘No one. They’re hungry for a story. Like you. Only younger,’ John said.

‘Thanks! You got anything?’ asked Elyas.

‘Nothing yet. But look at this guy. I don’t even know what he’s saying here,’ John said, pointing to a message full of acronyms.

One of the junior reporters shouted over to the Elyas, ‘Police have advised people to shut up shop and go home!’

John turned to him. ‘Something is not right here, Ely,’ he said. ‘It’s like this EDL march just happened, without any visible planning. Since when did these people get so bloody spontaneous? And so organised at such short notice?’

‘You’re right,’ said Elyas. ‘I’ve just walked through a crowd of young Asian guys, and not one of them sounded like he was from this city. Newcastle, Liverpool and London, yes, but not here. Something is definitely not right.’

‘Do you think Jia knows anyone who can shed light?’ asked John.