‘Abu Mujahid?’ said Skeffington.

‘Who knows?’ said Gabriel. ‘He’s in the UK, so it’s possible.’

‘Fucking hell, ma’am, it’s not as if we’ve got enough on our plates as it is,’ said Skeffington.

Gabriel snapped. ‘Sorry to ruin your busy day, Skeffington, I’m sure you’ve got more interesting things to do. As it is, it’s not our baby – DSU Clifton’s team upstairs are taking it on. Still, we need to feed him anything we get on Abu Mujahid that links him to this shooting.’

Bose stepped in. ‘What’s the CCTV like?’

‘Hopeless,’ said Gabriel. ‘Shows a male at some distance. Ballistics haven’t turned up anything yet. If it is him, then he’s branching out – he’s never been one for this type of precision assassination before. Bombs, yes. Beatings, yes. Shoving children and women in a cage and setting fire to them, yes. But not this.

‘Also, we know he’s been sent a shipment of weapons and arms by the GID. Whatever he’s planning, it wasn’t just an assassination with a lone gunman. If it was him, then he’s up to something else – something far bigger.’

Skeffington snorted. ‘If it’s not Abu Mujahid, don’t need to look too far for motive, ma’am. Imagine trying to compile the list of suspects for shooting that cow. You’d need to bring in sixty million people for questioning.’

‘That “cow” is our democratically elected deputy prime minister, DI Skeffington, and I’d ask you to show some respect.’ Gabriel glowered at him.

‘Joke, ma’am,’ said Skeffington, staring hard back. ‘I know you feel under the cosh, but it’s called having a sense of humour.’

‘Tell you what, DI Skeffington, when I want someone with a sense of humour, I’ll hire a proper clown.’

Skeffington fumed silently.

Fifteen minutes later, Bose was back at Gabriel’s desk, her eyes bright with excitement.

‘Confirmation from Greece about the shipment from GID, ma’am,’ she said in response to Gabriel’s raised eyebrow. ‘The Greeks have sifted through the files at the Athens shipping office and they’ve got the destination in the UK. It came in via Southampton and on to an electrical goods warehouse in Burgess Hill, West Sussex. A family firm – nothing on the file, no links to terrorism or organised crime groups. It’s on an industrial estate on the edge of town.’

‘Burgess Hill?’ said Gabriel. ‘Not your traditional hotbed for Islamist terrorism. Not really a hotbed for anything, come to think of it.’ She called to Skeffington. ‘Get down to Burgess Hill. Take DS Campbell too. Pull their paperwork, the CCTV and the names of anyone who might have picked up a shipment from Greece. Abu Mujahid arrived in the UK two weeks ago – so focus on the last fortnight. How long to get there?’

‘Sixty minutes, maybe? Quicker to get them to send it over, ma’am,’ he said.

Gabriel ignored him. ‘Contact Sussex Police – get the warehouse shut down immediately. Keep everyone there until you arrive.’

#

Chelsea, London

Hogarth held the vanity mirror aloft and dabbed at her face with concealer. Her shin ached despite the painkillers, as did the bruises on her back and shoulders from the fall. Her left hand was grazed and she’d scraped her cheek on the pavement.