The phone rang. The number was withheld. Houghton disconnected the headphones from the laptop and plugged them into his phone. ‘It’s me,’ came the voice from the headphones. ‘What the fuck happened?’

‘He bottled it,’ said Houghton.

‘I thought you said he was under control.’

‘It’s not a fucking science,’ he snapped. ‘You can’t predict what anyone will do under those circumstances.’

Silence. ‘Has he made contact?’

‘No, and he can’t. He’s on his own.’

Another pause. ‘Are you compromised?’

‘No,’ said Houghton.

‘And the video? Can you salvage it?’

‘I’m recutting it now. Most of it is useable. I’m taking out the lines about martyrdom. What about phase two?’ Even on this secure burner phone, Houghton was instinctively cautious.

‘We’re going ahead as planned. Still waiting for the organisers to confirm the date, but I’m hearing it’s likely to be this weekend, possibly Saturday. And make sure they follow the script this time. Is Dougie ready?’

‘Spoke to him earlier. He’s okay. But…’ Houghton paused.

‘Go on?’

‘Given what happened today, I’m going to go with him. Just to be on the safe side.’

There was silence. ‘No fuck-ups. Understood?’

The line went dead.

#

Chilton Park, Kent

Gabriel slipped her phone into her jacket pocket and returned to the fairy-grotto themed cafe where the SOCO team had made a temporary home. Tennant was one of the decent ones. She’d first met him at a Met leadership training day where he was introducing the latest initiative on diversity. She, new and mouthy and working for the Directorate of Professional Standards, the body that investigates complaints about officers, had stood at the back of the conference room and challenged him publicly. At lunch, Tennant had sought her out and, over a plate of weary ham and cheese sandwiches, they had continued the discussion. She didn’t think she had told him he was talking batshit, but she had said something pretty close.

But she had immediately liked Tennant, and had respected his candour and humility, enough for her to stick her neck out for him a few months later. He subsequently claimed she had saved his skin and she did not disagree. Their paths had crossed a handful of times since then as she’d moved away from investigating corrupt officers into investigating terrorists at SO15. And two years ago, he had repaid the debt during the media whirlwind that followed the Abu Mujahid affair. The inquiry had hung over her for eighteen months as she had trodden water, unable to step away from the prying press, unable to shake the suspicion that colleagues and superiors viewed her as a lame duck. Tennant had covered her back, ensuring that she was not cast aside by a commissioner who was renowned for blowing with the wind to appease the media.

‘Jesus Christ, Campbell,’ muttered Gabriel as they took their seats at a table overshadowed by a mural of a five-foot-tall rabbit. A teenage boy handed them a polystyrene cup containing a warm brown liquid. Gabriel took the boy’s word that it was coffee, took a sip and put it down quickly.