They had reached the basement floor by now and were heading across the concrete floor towards the revolving door into the staff car park.

‘But… ma’am, stop and think for a minute. You’re not being objective.’

Gabriel stopped in front of the door. This kind of dissent was alien to Bose, and the challenge unsettled Gabriel momentarily.

‘Sorry, Eva, but fuck objectivity. Abu Mujahid screwed me over once. He’s not doing that a second time. Grab the car keys and stop arguing.’

#

St Pancras Station, London

Bose said nothing on the two-minute journey, but Gabriel was too lost in the bubbling mess of thoughts to notice she was sulking. Abu Mujahid was out there, somewhere in the cold and dark, pushing his way through the back streets and alleyways, getting closer with every step, believing he had escaped justice once more and his heart set on escape. And this time Gabriel would not let him succeed. She knew that she had been driven by her failure two years ago, but until the last few moments in CT ops, she had not realised just how far she would go. Her outburst at Bose had surprised her. So had her determination to get to St Pancras in person. But so what? She deserved it. And she couldn’t let that idiot Skeffington mess this up, not now, when the goal was so close she could almost sense it. She knew she was being not just unconventional but unreasonable and even obsessive. But the thought of letting Abu Mujahid go again – and the prospect of all that pain and the guilt and the self-recrimination – was unbearable.

The car pulled over into the taxi drop-off lane outside St Pancras and the pair jumped out. Access to the police station briefing room was from inside the terminus. Two pairs of armed police were walking casually past the chemists and stationery shops. They nodded to two soldiers, carrying their rifles pointing down. Lesley Hogarth would be pleased to see them on the beat, she thought.

Gabriel walked into the police station, waved her badge in front of the desk sergeant and was let through into a corridor reeking with disinfectant – the smell of primary school toilets and interview cells. The briefing was in the first door on the right. She put her nose against the frosted glass panel and pushed open the door.

Skeffington was facing away from her as he addressed two dozen plain-clothes spotters scattered around the room, some sitting on plastic chairs and desks, others resting against the wall, arms crossed. A silver-haired man in his fifties slouched in a chair at the front recognised Gabriel as she walked in and self-consciously sat more upright.

Skeffington was finishing. ‘…to be honest, we’re chasing shadows here, guys, and the chances that Abu Mujahid is out there is close to a big fat zero. But you know what the boss is like when it comes to her pet subject: we have to show willing. Questions?’