‘Here we go,’ he says. They cross the street, approaching the couple as they’re about to enter the apartment. The adrenaline rush is almost overwhelming. He never thought he’d be back on the streets of London again, making arrests with armed support. Conor would be impressed, maybe Mel would be too. That’s the problem. They never get to see these moments, can’t share in the professional satisfaction that makes him get out of bed every morning.

Strover moves towards the woman, flashing her ID as she takes her to one side, while Silas confronts the man, who visibly tenses.

‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of ordering the murder of Dr Ajay Varma,’ Silas says. ‘For the abduction of twelve super recognisers, the murder in Cornwall of a barman at the Bluebell pub in Wiltshire, the false registration of a car with the DVLA, and entering the UK on a false passport. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you can later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘Very good,’ the man says, glancing up and down the street, where armed officers have now broken cover and taken up closer positions. He looks so young, barely older than Conor. ‘But aren’t you supposed to give a name?’ he asks. ‘My name?’

Silas takes a deep breath, watching as Strover hands the woman over to another female police officer. To his right, he clocks an Armed Response officer shifting his feet, gun trained on the man in front of him, elbows high. This is it. What Silas lives for. Strover is back at his side again. She’s done well. He stares at the man, tries to imagine what it must have been like for Kate when she looked into these hollow blue eyes, blinking now in the bright London sunshine. Whose soul did she really see?

‘Your name?’ Silas repeats.

Strover looks across at him, waiting for him to confirm that it’s Gilmour Martin.

He pauses, savouring the moment, the evening light of east London.

‘Your name’s Rob,’ he says. Strover flinches beside him. ‘Robert Colwan.’

The man looks at Silas, blood draining from his face, and checks up and down the street. Has Silas got it wrong? This is Rob before him, no question. It always was Rob, wasn’t it? But the man doesn’t speak. He just stares at Silas as he slips a hand inside his jacket pocket. A moment later, shots ring out as the man slumps to the ground, armed officers running towards them from either end of the street, the air full of urgent cries.

One week later

112

Silas