She stepped closer. She was now four feet from him. Just out of reach of his knife. She sensed Carter moving to the left to get a better line of sight. She needed to keep Abu Mujahid distracted and busy.

‘Do you actually still believe in anything, Jack? After what you’ve done? Do you still believe in a god or the Prophet? You don’t seem keen to join him.’ And then, before Gabriel had time to react, Abu Mujahid flung himself forward, one hand pushing the face of the young boy to one side, the other – still grasping the sushi knife he’d grabbed from the chef’s table – stretching out towards her. Gabriel flinched back, the knife jabbing now just inches from her cheek.

‘You fucking bitch.’ It was more of a snarl than a yell. And before Gabriel had time to absorb the words, to register that finally he’d spoken to her, the thunder of gunfire was in her ears and her head and her guts. Abu Mujahid dropped like a puppet, his head falling on the conveyor belt amid the red, yellow and grey ringed plates of food, his blood trickling from the wound in his stomach onto the moving dishes of rice and fish. Gabriel looked down. Abu Mujahid’s blood was splattered over her shirt and hands.

Barker pushed Gabriel out of the way and grabbed the boy.

Abu Mujahid was moaning and twitching, his flailing arms trying to staunch the flow of blood from his stomach.

‘Good shot,’ said Gabriel.

‘Not really, ma’am,’ said Carter. ‘I was aiming for his chest.’

Gabriel stared, then walked away, out of the restaurant, and back into the concourse where her colleagues were shepherding curious passers-by from the restaurant entrance.

Bose ran up, panting. ‘Ma’am, did they get him?’

Gabriel stared at Bose’s dark, concerned eyes, conscious of the sweat pouring off her own body, and for the first time in hours, or was it days, she allowed herself to smile. The smile came from deep within her. ‘We got him, Eva, we got him.’

DAY 22

Wednesday

Westminster, London

The silence swept through the stone pillars and wooden chairs like a wind. Gabriel sat in her freshly pressed dress uniform towards the back of the small congregation, away from the gaze of politicians and the TV cameras. Ahead, she could see the new prime minister’s grey head bowed in conspicuous prayer, close to him the plum jacket of Lesley Hogarth, whose bobbed hair flicked from side to side as she looked around the Abbey. Next to her was a woman with dyed red hair whom Gabriel did not recognise.

Tennant was there too, sat in full uniform with the commissioner, a few places from the mayor of London, the Leader of the Opposition and the Shadow Home Secretary. All had come up for the public display of grief and reconciliation. Around her were the families of the victims of the last two weeks, some with dead, numb eyes, many sobbing.