IC3 was the radio code for a black person; IC4 for sub-continental Asian.

She turned around to see Bose staring, a mixture of admiration and concern on her face.

‘You said there’s evidence that they’re in the crowd, ma’am?’ she said.

‘If I’m right, no one will care. If I’m wrong, they can hang me out to dry later.’

Feeds from a dozen or so CCTV cameras filled the main screen in CT ops. Gabriel’s team were transfixed by the screens, looking for a glimpse of Asad or Muhid or even Abu Mujahid among the bobbing heads.

The spectators were moving quickly, but still not running. Any second she expected to see people falling and tripping, and the people behind them stumbling over the bodies, only to feel the piercing pain of a hail of bullets. And as they fell, more and more bullets until the concrete walkway was blocked with the screaming, clawing, bloodied hands and arms and the crying of children and the sobbing of adults.

Come on, she willed the armed patrols and the spotters on the ground. Come on.

#

Wembley Stadium, North West London

Sulaiman Khan’s arms ached. His son was asking to walk and perhaps it would be okay, particularly if he held the boy’s hand tightly. He’d lost his brother in the crowd, but his son was safe, so that was all that mattered. His forehead was stinging from the graze. He’d get his wife to look at that when he got home.

The crowd seemed to be more restless now. There was more pressure on his back and it took more of an effort to keep walking. And they were going slower, if that was possible.

He let his son slide down in front of him and he grabbed his arm tightly. He could see very little – he was a short man, only five foot six inches – and the only things in his sights were the heads and shoulders of the other fans, fleeing the ground. Perhaps he should try to get to one side of the path. It might be easier for the boy.

‘Oi. Paki.’ The shout came from his left. Khan looked around, shocked more than angry. The voice came again. A group of ten men – white and drunk – were standing on the railings of the walkway down to Wembley Way, Union Jacks over their shoulders, beer cans in hands. The ringleader, a man with closely cropped hair and a face tattoo, was staring him in the eyes.

‘Go home, you terrorist cunt. England for the English. Remember Pall Mall?’

The voice carried over the crowd. Voices around Khan were subdued. His son looked up, big-eyed and anxious.

Another voice, somewhere to the left and behind, shouted out: ‘Fuck off, you racist shit.’ Another voice uttered an incomprehensible yell of agreement.

‘You’re fucking dead,’ shouted the skinhead, and jumped into the crowd, his fists flailing.

Around Khan, the mood had evolved into panic. The drunk men were pushing through the crowd, lashing out indiscriminately, and Khan saw with a mounting horror that he and his son were in the way. Where were the police? Khan scooped up his son and tried to push through the crowd in the direction of the Tube station.