‘Chimney?’ said the second man, arms outstretched as he shuffled slowly towards the bird. ‘Get a towel or something.’

The first man returned from the bedroom with a duvet.

‘What fucking use is that?’ said his companion.

‘Just chuck it over him.’

‘For fuck’s sake.’ He pulled the cover off the duvet and, holding it over his hands, dived at the pigeon. ‘Open the window.’

‘Don’t be so gay. Break its neck,’ said the first man.

‘I’m not killing a fucking pigeon. Open the window.’

The first man yanked at the wooden sash, which gave way and crashed down on the sill. The second man held the duvet cover to the window. The pigeon flopped outside and sat on the ground in a patch of light streaming from the window.

‘Fucking stupid creature. I hate pigeons,’ said the first man.

They set about tidying up the mess, wiping off bird mess from the table with a stale cloth, smelling faintly of drains, which they’d found under the sink. The first man washed his hands.

‘Have you spoken to the boss since Houghton was nicked?’ said the first man.

‘Have I fuck,’ said the second. ‘Don’t want to get my head bitten off. It was a cock-up. Houghton virtually handed over his fucking phone to the filth. What a fucking idiot.’

‘Has he talked?’ said the first man.

‘No. Not Houghton. He’s military. They’re hard.’

The sound of a key in the front door halted the conversation. A figure was silhouetted in the sitting room doorway by the hallway light. The pair breathed again.

‘For fuck’s sake – I could hear you halfway down the street. Why not just email the police a full confession and be done with it? Sit down and act like fucking grown-ups for just one second.’

Brushing a loose strand of her red dyed hair behind an ear, Nina O’Brien stepped into the room.

DAY 15

Wednesday

CTOC, St Pancras, London

What a difference a week makes, thought Gabriel as she stood at the front of the ops room. A few days ago, the prevailing mood of her team had been exhaustion mingled with desperation. A week on, they were still tired, but the success in Leeds had bolstered their confidence and there was now the glimmer of something around the corner, like the smell of the air just before a snowstorm. The call from Skeffington in Burgess Hill yesterday had been the break she desperately needed. They were no longer a week behind Abu Mujahid, they were just a few days behind. And that gap was narrowing.

Tennant had been on the phone earlier. The inquiry into the attempt on Hogarth’s life had stalled and he was desperate for a break. Gabriel could only imagine the pressure he was under from the top on that one. But there was still nothing to link Abu Mujahid with the shooting, other than the timing of his arrival in the UK. Last night she’d attended the Joint Operational Team meeting at Thames House during which it was confirmed that the hunt for Abu Mujahid should be handed back from MI5 to SO15. The objective was now to arrest him as quickly as possible and she had left the meeting relieved but acutely aware of the burden pressing down on her shoulders. If she let Abu Mujahid go again, if he took yet more lives, nothing would save her career, nothing would ever lift the guilt.