‘Who’s that?’ asked Campbell.

Skeffington looked at the list of collections and deliveries. ‘Nothing was picked up that Friday till 8am.’

The van was stationary for another thirty seconds, and then a figure emerged. Their back was to the camera as they walked to the office.

Moments later, the figure re-emerged with the bearded member of staff. Both people were carrying boxes the size of old-fashioned tea chests.

‘Who is the staff member?’ said Skeffington.

‘Dave Johnson, early shift,’ said the manager. ‘His shift finishes at noon, so he’s at home now.’

Campbell wrote down the name, paused the image then enlarged it. It was still dark and the light from the car park wasn’t good enough to make out their features clearly. Campbell pressed play and the men walked on to the van. They were still in semi-darkness as they opened the back and loaded up. The driver got in and pulled away.

‘Can we get a sharper image?’ asked Skeffington, barely masking his irritation.

‘Not here. Video forensics should be able to get something clearer, sir.’

‘Is that Abu Mujahid?’ Skeffington wondered aloud. The driver had the right build, but his back was turned. ‘Go back to the start – I want to see the van arrive.’

Campbell rewound. ‘Stop,’ said Skeffington. ‘Now forward a frame or two. There. Gotcha.’ And he pointed at the screen.

For a second, as the van turned into the car park, its front was facing the camera. And for a second, its number plate and the driver, Abu Mujahid, were visible in the street light.

‘That’s the bugger,’ said Skeffington. ‘Bloody hell, the boss was right.’

#

Downing Street, London

Rupert, the Prime Minister’s Cocker Spaniel, was dozing on the carpet in front of the desk, his feet flexing as his sleeping mind enjoyed a fantasy dog paradise, chasing rabbits, or teasing cats. Thomas crouched down to tickle his ears.

‘Take a seat, Ben.’ The Prime Minister was alone. Thomas could not recall the last time the pair of them had sat face to face without a civil servant eavesdropping. The PM waved towards the sofa. Thomas selected the end furthest from the window and leant back, cross-legged, his fingers resting on his trouser pocket, his expression neutral and his mind racing faster than the sleeping dog’s.

‘A while since we talked, just the two of us. Like the old days, eh?’ said the Prime Minister from an armchair diagonally opposite Thomas.

He looks ancient, thought Thomas, and he wondered whether people said the same about him. ‘There’s no time, is there?’ he said.

‘Perhaps we should have made time, Ben. Perhaps we wouldn’t be in the mess we are now.’

‘Listen, you know I’ll back you one hundred per cent. Whatever you say, however you decide to play this. It’s chip paper – no one will care in a week.’

‘You know that’s bollocks. You know they’ve got my head in a sodding noose and all they’re waiting for is the final kick of the stool,’ the Prime Minister said softly.