‘Let me say this – and this is a message to you, the Islamists and those politicians in the opposition who sympathise with the thugs and bullies.

‘You are not welcome here. To the terrorists who bring violence to the streets, and to the Islamists who seek to destroy our way of life, I say this – go home, go back to your parents’ homes, go back to your grandparents’ homes. If you try to destroy us with violence, we will rise and destroy you. For too long, Britain has been a place of tolerance, where foreign cultures have been allowed to set up stall alongside traditional British culture. But no longer. We have had enough. And that starts here. We need tougher laws to protect our own – and that is why I am determined to see a Freedom Bill introduced into law to protect traditional British values of decency, fair play and justice. I’ve talked before about the need for a Second Battle of Britain. That battle starts here, and it starts now.’

#

Burgess Hill, West Sussex

The warehouse resembled an outsized Meccano to Skeffington’s eyes. It stood in an industrial park alongside a row of willows, which dipped their branches into a stream lined with tin cans and plastic bags.

Three cars from Sussex Police had arrived to support SO15. No vehicles had left or entered the site in the last two hours and seven employees were being kept in the staff restroom. An articulated lorry was parked on the slip road outside the complex, its driver sat angrily in his cab on the phone, unable to drop off the load or drive to his next destination.

Skeffington was sat in the manager’s office with Campbell. The manager – a sweating, red-faced man with a flop of thinning hair – was fiddling with his thumbs. His assistant stood behind her boss, unsmiling and severe.

‘Have another look, sir, go on, a really good one,’ said Skeffington.

The manager held the photograph of Abu Mujahid in his clammy fingers. His forehead inched forward to bring it closer to his eyes, but he shook his head.

‘Sorry, inspector, I don’t know him.’ He pushed the photograph back across the desktop.

‘Who works nights?’ asked Skeffington.

‘Any one of four or five – we rotate the night shift. We can get deliveries pretty much any time, so we always need someone about.’

‘We’ll need your work rota for the last three weeks then – and I’ll need access to your CCTV, of course.’

The manager blinked. ‘That’s a bit irregular – don’t you need a warrant for that?’

‘You could insist we get a warrant, that’s true. But that could take a couple of hours to sort out while we all sit around here doing sod all. And unless you’ve got a bottle of Scotch and a good movie, we might just get a bit bored. On the other hand, you could just volunteer to show us now. Which, if you think about it, would be the more normal thing for someone to do, considering you’ve got nothing to hide.’