The DC from Kendal made a note in her book. This was the fourth shop she’d been in, and she’d been convinced she was on a wild goose chase. ‘What can you tell me about him, sir? And do you remember what he was driving?’

‘Aye. As I said, he said it was birdwatching equipment. Parked on the double yellow lines. Told him he’d get a ticket there, but he didn’t heed me. They’re crafty, the traffic wardens though – don’t matter if they’re loading here, they’ll just stick a ticket on you… Sorry, love, what was the question again?’

The DC smiled patiently and gritted her teeth. ‘His vehicle?’

‘Oh, yes. He had a van – Transit, I think. Grey or white, I can’t remember. I helped load the boxes.’

‘Do you have details of the delivery still, sir?’ she asked.

‘Aye. Hang on a second.’ He went over to a file by the till. ‘I keep a printout – don’t trust these machines to be honest not to lose stuff.’ He pulled out a sheet with an order number and name and address. ‘Here you go. Ordinary enough bloke. But funny-looking. Scruffy, long beard.’

#

‘Ma’am.’ Campbell came across Gabriel, who was talking to Skeffington and Bose. ‘Something in from the university. They’ve identified the two other cell members – both students, both went missing at the same time as Mirza and Asad.’ He checked his notepad. ‘Ahmed Muhid and Waheed Saleem. I’ve got the family addresses and full university records.’

‘So we’ve got the whole cell. About bloody time,’ said Gabriel. ‘Get the phone records, bank records, everything. I want to know their sodding shoe size if it helps.’

Each hour, it felt they were getting closer and closer to Abu Mujahid. But had they left themselves enough time? Once again, she bitterly wished they had started looking hard for him a few days earlier, when she had that conviction he was back in the UK. They could have found him by now. Now they were closer, but still scrabbling in the dark.

#

Stonebridge, North West London

When Asad closed his eyes, he could see Mirza’s face. When he opened them, he saw his face. He lay in the darkness, the echoes of Mirza’s gurgling blood pulsing through his ears, drowning out the sirens and shouts outside the flat. He should have stopped Mirza going out. He should have stopped Abu Mujahid from attacking him. He should have kept quiet. He should have done something. But he knew, deep down in his core, that he would have changed nothing.

Abu Mujahid had returned later that evening with black plastic sheeting. Together, they had wrapped Mirza’s body, tightly binding the plastic with tape, making a seal to keep in the blood and stench of death. It had taken three of them to lift his body and push it into a walk-in cupboard in the hall, squeezed up alongside a vacuum cleaner and a mop. Muhid and Saleem appeared to relish the work, taking turns to denounce him as a traitor.