Plymouth’s main shopping street measured five hundred metres, give or take a couple of strides. The street sloped gently upwards and ran west to east as straight as an arrow. If you had an eye for such a thing you could find several good hide sites, but the standout one was at the top of the multistorey car park down at the western end. You could lie there with your weapon poking through the metal guardrail or alternatively place yourself in a vehicle, open the front passenger window, and sit in the back seat. With a small gel bag on the sill the window would provide the perfect rest. The trajectory of the bullet over a range of five hundred metres meant there’d be a drop to account for but the buildings rose, chasm like, either side of the street, so crosswinds were minimal. If the target was walking to the west, towards the car park, you’d have plenty of time to make the shot. If they went into a shop you could simply wait until they emerged. No doubt about it, the car park was a standout position.

Rebecca da Silva stared up at the multistorey. She didn’t have to think about such things any more, but she’d been in the army for eight years and situational awareness was in her blood. Quite literally, since her father had served in the army too. Back in the nineties he’d been with the special forces in the Gulf War. ‘You thought Afghanistan was tough?’ he’d sneer, as if patrolling the streets of Kabul was akin to taking a stroll in the English countryside. ‘You should have tried SCUD hunting in southern Iraq. That was tough.’ She would nod and pretend to listen, all the while wondering if it was genes or upbringing that had led to her following in his footsteps. Perhaps it was serendipity or divine intervention. Perhaps it was plain rotten luck.