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CTOC, St Pancras, London

‘Ma’am, we’ve got a disturbance just outside the stadium,’ the young DC called back to Gabriel.

‘Gunfire?’ said Gabriel, looking at the screens, desperately trying to spot the trouble.

‘Fighting,’ said the DC. ‘Officers are moving in. Looks like far right.’ One of the cameras zoomed into a section of the crowd. Four skinheads were standing on the railings alongside the walkway jeering into the mass of bodies. Gabriel could see arms and fists, waving above heads below them. Ripples from the fighting were running through the surrounding crowd. Two police officers were trying to push their way through to the scene but were struggling against the oncoming mass.

‘Reports of at least one person down. Wembley Command is moving horses into the area,’ said the DC.

‘Jesus Christ, just what we don’t need,’ said Gabriel.

It was harder now to see what was going on as the speed of the evacuating spectators increased. And if the gunmen opened fire now, the chances of getting an armed officer within a clear shot was receding fast. Sod it, thought Gabriel.

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Wembley Stadium Car Park, North West London

The echoes from the drone explosion had ricocheted around the glass and concrete offices surrounding Wembley Stadium. Diners sat at the outdoor tables around Ahmed Muhid had twisted their heads to find the source; some had stood up. He had remained seated, his coffee and salad – props to allow him to remain at the restaurant – untouched. His heart was battering his ribs and sweat was dribbling down his back. He struggled to remain unruffled.

‘Stay calm on the outside,’ Abu Mujahid had told them that morning. ‘Give no signs.’

It had taken only minutes from the dull boom of the drone exploding for word to reach his fellow diners via their phones that an attack was underway. The exodus had been immediate. Within thirty seconds, most diners outside had flown, putting wads of cash on the tables, or moving inside to settle their bills or take shelter.

Abu Mujahid had chosen Muhid’s location well. It had a clear view of one of the raised walkways leading from the stadium. The walkway was wide enough for twenty people perhaps, enough to provide a good target, but not too wide to allow any of the spectators to flee.

In the Lake District, Abu Mujahid had been adamant. ‘Fire on those advancing to you, take out the front line, then the second line and keep going. But wait till they are close – fifty metres. Be patient.’

Muhid could see the first fleeing spectators now on the walkway, in England and Hungary shirts, spewing out of the nearest exit and into the concrete concourses like mince from a grinder.

Two hundred metres now. Muhid thought of Paradise. He thought of children gassed by the West in Syria. And those thoughts burned deep inside of him. He felt nothing but hatred for the cowards fleeing the stadium. These were the same people who had willingly supported the wars in Iraq, and who had watched without question or doubt while their soldiers murdered Muslim brothers and sisters in Afghanistan and Syria. These were the same people, sub-people whose lives were mired in sin, sexual corruption, deviancy, perversion, delinquency.