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Later, Gabriel spoke with Tennant alone. ‘I’ve brought in more bodies to go through the CCTV overnight,’ she said.

‘Good. All leave has been cancelled for the next three days, and I’ve ordered a security review of every major event in the capital – and elsewhere. We’ve no proof this is going to be a London attack. What’s your judgement on the timing of this? Over the weekend?’

‘Soon,’ she said.

They paused. Down below, commuters were scurrying home for the weekend.

‘It would be Abu Mujahid, wouldn’t it?’ said Gabriel, more to herself than Tennant. ‘Of all the possible people to be running this, it would be Abu Mujahid.’

‘At the risk of sounding like some ghastly self-help guru, that’s not necessarily such a bad thing, Sophie. It’s personal – I get that. But that’s meant you’ve pushed yourself, pushed your team, even harder.’

‘Maybe. But I feel like I’ve been running on instinct for the last week.’

‘Don’t underestimate the value of instinct. The brain isn’t a computer. You don’t shove in data and get data out the other end. A gut instinct isn’t some random feeling – it’s what you get when you feed your brain facts, emotions, experience, life. So far, those instincts have been largely right. Instinct – a kind of reasoned, intelligent instinct based on knowledge and experience – is what makes the difference between an okay cop and a brilliant one. Skeffington is okay. You’re much better. You’re brilliant.’

Gabriel said nothing.

Tennant continued: ‘Look, your instinct is good. I could have listened to you earlier about Abu Mujahid. Perhaps I should have done. And I’m sorry for that. We rarely get a second chance in this game. Abu Mujahid has walked back into this shitstorm and this is our chance to nail the bastard. He could have died in a ditch in Syria and you’d be none the wiser. This way, we’ve got a chance to put him inside permanently.’

And that would be sweet, conceded Gabriel as she returned to her desk. For herself and for Isobel Harris.

DAY 18

Saturday Morning

Stoke Newington, North London

The green figures of Gabriel’s bedside alarm were too blurry to make out, so she blinked repeatedly to shake the sleep from her eyes. It was 2.50am. Had she only been asleep for twenty minutes? Ray was snoring beside her, so she pressed her finger gently against his nose. He grunted, turned over and stopped. Drones. Abu Mujahid. Assault rifles. Explosives. Fireworks. The images were revolving in her head. What would Abu Mujahid do? What would have most impact?

She dreamt of drones flying over crowds, coming to a stop before falling with a flash and boom. She dreamt of Abu Mujahid standing in a high street in front of Marks & Spencer, a little girl holding his hand. Isobel Harris. Her blue eyes were gazing up at him lovingly and he raised his fingers to his lips. A river of humanity flowed around them, yet Abu Mujahid was rooted to the pavement, a remote control in his hand. It was London. Gabriel was frozen on the other side of the street, unable to move. Isobel smiled and waved. Gabriel opened her mouth to shout, but no noise came. She waved desperately at the girl, and Isobel waved back before turning and walking away with Abu Mujahid. Gabriel screamed but, again, no sound came from her mouth. And then Abu Mujahid was back in the street, his mouth open, but instead of speech, out came a buzzing noise. A samba band passed, and a float. And on the float was Skeffington in a sparkling gold dress singing. The noise continued in her ear and with a creeping awareness, she realised that the sound she could hear was her phone.