A trickle of blood had splashed on to his shirt, but it was just a scratch. The prospect of walking down to the exposed pitch to summon a paramedic had filled him with terror. He wanted out; he wanted his son out. He had joined the bodies pushing towards the exits at the top of the concrete steps and allowed himself to be washed along the corridors of the stadium.

A couple of hours ago, this same crowd were singing and chanting. Now there was a dour grimness about their purpose as they hurried, not running but walking steadily, towards the exits, towards Wembley Way and towards the Tube station.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

Gabriel watched the flow of bodies on the screens with unease. She knew things could turn quickly. A shot. A bang. A scream. They might all be enough to make someone push or trip and, once someone in a panicking crowd is on the floor, there’s little that can be done to help them. It’s impossible to wade against the flow. Often, someone will only know a fellow human being has fallen over when they feel their bones underfoot.

And a shot or a bang was what she feared. This was already Abu Mujahid’s work. He had sent these people fleeing, he had activated the drone, injuring dozens, turning a day that was supposed to be a celebration into a day of grieving and anger once more.

Abu Mujahid was in her thoughts now, as he had been two years ago – and for much of those intervening weeks and months. Was it about to happen again on her watch? She felt like Abu Mujahid was a spirit sometimes, sent to test her. Did he know she was leading this inquiry? She felt they were so close – yet she had never spoken to him. She had only seen him in the flesh three times – twice at court and once in the high-security cell after his arrest. But she had seen him in her sleep pretty much every week for the last two years.

Was he watching this too? Had he been in the block of flats when that man had been shot, and when that drone had exploded?

As if reading her thoughts, Campbell called her.

‘Ma’am, looks like we got everyone out before the drone went off. It was on the balcony when it detonated and the shrapnel damage was mostly contained. The floor below was damaged but nothing structural. Looks like it was packed with nails and nuts and bolts, like the Wembley one. No sign of Abu Mujahid or the others – we’re starting a search of the flats.’

‘Okay, Jorell.’ He hung up. Her eyes turned back to the screens. The camera was pointed at the faces of the spectators walking towards her. There was an Asian man with a bleeding head, carrying his son in his arms.

‘Oh, people, I need ideas,’ she said to the DCs and DSs around her. ‘What’s Abu Mujahid planning? Where’s he gone? Where are the other two cell members?’