I waited while the information was conveyed. Then I ostentatiously ripped the lead out of the telephone and said, in a series of short sentences, waiting for Mike to translate each one. ‘What’s going to happen is this . . . The police have already evacuated the city . . . In ten minutes’ time we’re getting out too . . . We’re not going to wait for the explosion . . . We’re going to cuff you to your shitty friend, tie you up and leave you here . . . Talk now, or it’ll be too late.’

That pushed him over the brink. He said something, and I saw Mike’s eyes widen.

‘What was that?’ I snapped.

‘He says the bomb is here.’

‘Where?’

‘In the garage below.’

‘Jesus Christ! What garage? These flats don’t have garages. We checked that.’

‘In the small street behind.’

‘What number?’

‘Three.’

I hit my pressel. ‘Red leader. What street is there immediately behind this block?’

‘It’s a mews,’ said Joe instantly. ‘Markham Mews. Why?’

‘The bomb’s there, in the garage.’

‘Say that again.’

‘Our prisoner says the bomb’s there. In Number Three’s garage. I’m coming down.’

I was already in the hall. ‘Stay put!’ I yelled to the rest of the team.’ At the last moment I stuck my head back round the sitting-room door and said, ‘Remember, nobody comes in here, and nobody’s coming out of here alive.’

I couldn’t wait for the lift. I took the stairs four or five at a time, heaving myself round the corners with the hand-rail. By the time I hit the street police sirens were screaming towards the block. A car nearly knocked me down as it swung into the mews. I was aware of a cordon in the distance, with a crowd behind it, and other figures running close to me.

There were the garages, built into little houses opposite the apartment block. One, two, three, numbering from the left. The third had bright blue wooden doors, freshly painted, with a white figure high on the right-hand side. The doors were secured with an old-fashioned hasp and padlock.

‘Bolt-cutters!’ I shouted. ‘For fuck’s sake, bolt-cutters!’

There was someone in black beside me, one of the QRF. Bolt-shears appeared in his hands. Two seconds later he had chopped through the soft metal guards around the padlock. I slid the bolt back, padlock and all, and dragged the doors open. The little garage was occupied by a beige-coloured van with the logo WEST END ANTIQUES painted in an elegant rainbow shape across its back doors.

Shit! I thought. Either Barrakuda was lying or he boobed on the number.

The guy from the QRF was more on the ball. He jumped forward, tried the doors, found they were locked, pushed his way between the right-hand side of the van and the brick wall, shone a torch through the driver’s window and shouted, ‘It’s here!’