To one side of the room a junior operative, Farakh Javed, hunched over a laptop staring at some black and white images. Javed was an analyst in Holm’s department who’d unfathomably latched onto Holm as some kind of intelligence guru. Javed had a bouncy shock of black hair and an engaging smile. He was very bright and very gay – a fact, he’d told Holm, his second-generation Pakistani parents weren’t happy with. Holm secretly sympathised with them. Live and let live was a motto he tried to abide by, but he had to admit he was slightly uncomfortable with Javed’s overt sexuality. He put it down to his age, lumping Javed in with a jumble of things he found difficult that included smartphones, self-scan supermarket checkouts and music streaming.

‘This is good,’ Javed said without looking up, somehow sensing it was Holm at his shoulder. ‘CCTV from a building near the scene. We’ve already got a match on one of the attackers.’

‘Really?’ Holm began to feel a glimmer of hope. He glanced down at the screen where Javed had zoomed in on an image. A young man stood with an automatic rifle in his hands. He wore a chequered shemagh round his head, but part of the covering had slipped away to reveal his face. The man had a beard and his features were indistinct, but Holm knew only a few data points were needed for the facial recognition software to pick a match. ‘Who is he?’

‘Mohid Latif.’ Javed half turned to Holm. ‘And he’s British.’

‘British?’ Holm looked closer. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought. A British citizen carrying out an attack on foreign soil and we missed him. The Spider’s going to blow her top.’

‘Is Latif on our radar?’

‘He’s on a long list. A very long list. Three years ago he was questioned by police regarding the distribution of some pamphlets.’

‘And we did nothing?’

Javed didn’t answer, merely made a face and shrugged.

‘Where’s Huxtable?’ Holm said. He couldn’t see the deputy director anywhere in the room.

‘Prowling.’ Javed raised his hand, palm down, and wiggled his fingers. A spider creeping forward. ‘And hungry. I hope you’ve got something for her.’

‘Christ.’ Holm felt his knees weaken and moved to a spare workstation. He slumped down in the chair and logged in using a fingerprint scanner. ‘There was nothing, Farakh, nothing.’

‘Sure.’ Javed held his hands up. ‘You don’t have to convince me, sir. You couldn’t have done any more.’

You. Holm noted the word. Javed was distancing himself. He didn’t want to be caught in the sticky web that was awaiting Holm.