He reached into his pockets for change and found six pound coins and a twenty-pence piece. He left it all in his saucer and walked out.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

The low murmur of activity in the CT ops room at St Pancras had subtly moved up a gear with news that Abu Mujahid had been sighted. The map of the street showing the block of flats was already up on the video screen while officers around Gabriel frantically scrambled for support.

‘A CTSFO team is on their way – will be with you in less than ten minutes,’ said Bose down the phone. ‘Keep eyes on the building and the exits covered.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said DC Jenson. ‘Looks like three entrances – two at the back, one at the front. I’ve had a recce of the main entrance – there are eighteen flats spread over five floors. Those at the rear, facing north, have substantial balconies – those on the opposite side, overlooking the road, don’t.’

‘Have you got a list of names on the buzzers?’ said Bose.

‘Yes, ma’am. I’ll send it over now. We’ll hold back till the CTSFOs are here.’

Gabriel bounded over and sat on Bose’s desk, her legs swinging urgently. ‘What have we got?’

‘Eighteen flats, ma’am, five floors,’ said Bose.

‘That’s too many. Anything from the helicopter?’

‘Nothing. We’ve got the rooftops covered,’ she pointed to the live video feed from the helicopter, ‘but nothing out of the ordinary, ma’am.’

‘What about the occupants?’ asked Gabriel.

‘The flats are owned by leaseholders – freehold is owned by a third-party company, LB Properties, based in Clapham. The electoral roll is of limited use. A lot of these may be sublet unofficially. LB Properties should have a more accurate list, but no reply to calls to the office or the home addresses of the directors.’

‘Probably watching the football,’ muttered Gabriel. ‘What we need is a foot in the door, someone who can give us intel, someone who likes twitching the net curtains.’

‘How about her?’ said Bose, looking at the electoral roll. ‘She may do. Rebecca Gladstone, lives at number three. Been there,’ she looked again, ‘since 1999 and she’s over eighty.’

‘Perfect,’ said Gabriel. ‘Send Jenson in – she’s got a good head on her.’

#

Stonebridge, North West London

Rebecca Gladstone stroked her lank, nicotine-stained white hair and eyed DC Jenson.

‘Mind if I smoke, officer?’ she asked.

‘Not at all,’ lied Jenson. She eyed Gladstone as she fiddled in her handbag, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with trembling, elegant fingers. She was a gaunt woman, her skin – stretched and blotched – evidence of a life in the sun. The cigarettes hadn’t helped, thought Jenson. Her flat smelt of lavender and stale Benson & Hedges.

‘As I said, we’re doing investigations in the area and wondered if anyone had moved into the flats in the last few weeks. Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?’

Gladstone gave Jenson a penetrating look. ‘People are always coming and going, young lady. They don’t stay long here.’