BBC News 24 was playing an interview with the Home Secretary on a TV hanging from the ceiling.

‘This attack on innocent Muslims was horrific,’ said Ben Thomas. ‘What we need now is calm and support for the police from the Muslim community. We don’t need this sort of potentially inflammatory reaction from the extremists in our community.’

Tosser, thought Campbell, who personally blamed Thomas for his meagre pay rise last year.

A couple in their sixties were talking quietly over an opened bag of crisps at a table placed on a raised end of the pub. Two men in their forties were laughing in the corner on a table next to the toilets. A handful of solitary drinkers were scattered around the remaining tables.

Skeffington and Campbell approached each table in turn. They had no joy until they spoke to a jowly man on his own, reading the sports pages of the Herald.

‘Saw him on the telly the other day. Stupid bastard,’ the man said in response to a photo of Fletcher slid across the sticky table.

‘Did he drink in here then?’ said Campbell.

‘Not often – couple of times a month, maybe less. Always over there.’ He pointed to a corner of the pub alongside the dartboard. ‘And always with the same mate. Don’t know why he would though. Beer’s like piss.’ He laughed.

Campbell leaned forward, his face close to the man. ‘Could you tell us anything about the man he met up with?’

The man took a sip. ‘He’s regular. A builder. Goes away most weeks, but he’s here Friday and Saturday. Now, what’s his name?’ He called over to the bar. ‘Angela, what’s the name of that builder who drinks here? The one who fucks off to the north in the week.’

She came over. ‘Peter. Peter McAllister. Why? What’s he done?’

#

Outside, Skeffington was on the phone to the counter terrorism ops room.

‘Peter McAllister. That’s right.’ He spelt the name out. There was a pause. ‘Give me a pen, Campbell.’ Skeffington scribbled down the address and put the phone away.

‘DVLA say he’s at 14 Hope Avenue. Electoral roll confirms it. Peter McAllister. Lives alone, semi in a quiet street. Surveillance on their way now and the CTSFO team are on standby.’

#

Gabriel sat on the grey Formica-topped desk in the ops room. It was through this room that surveillance operations were monitored, calls handled, live feeds processed and decisions made.

If this was Fletcher – and she believed it was – he was cornered, fragile and dangerous. It was always the goal in an operation like this to go slowly and carefully so as to reduce the risks of a fatal confrontation. This evening, with Gabriel’s conviction that the NRF had more up its sleeve, her caution was tempered with a burning impatience.

A man’s voice came on the radio from one of the team at the rear of the house. ‘In position, clear sight of back windows. Movement upstairs.’ The voice paused. ‘Repeat, movement upstairs. A male, cannot confirm ID.’