Abu Mujahid moved with a sudden ferocity that took the man by surprise. Within seconds Abu Mujahid was behind him, squeezing the man’s neck with just enough force to let him breathe.

‘Let me get this straight,’ Abu Mujahid spat into the man’s ear. ‘If you have to wait twenty minutes, twenty hours or twenty years for me, you fucking wait for me and you don’t utter a word of complaint. Do you understand?’

The man said nothing. Abu Mujahid squeezed harder. The man nodded and clawed desperately, and Abu Mujahid relaxed his grip.

‘Excellent.’ He smiled a humourless smile. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

The fat man stood up shakily, scooped up a set of keys and unlocked the door leading into the warehouse.

‘In there,’ he croaked, waving at two sealed grey plastic crates on the racks.

‘You going to take that one?’ said Abu Mujahid. It was not a question. The man grabbed a crate and began to carry it back to the office. Abu Mujahid lifted the second, weighed it in his arms and put it straight down. He looked closer at the seal.

‘Have you touched these?’

The man was wide-eyed and pale.

‘Course not.’

Abu Mujahid studied him. ‘If you have…’ He let the threat hang. ‘Just get them to the van.’

#

Twenty minutes later, Abu Mujahid was stood at the back of his van in a lay-by. He opened one door, took a knife from his pocket and carefully sliced the tape sealing the crates.

His suspicion was right. Two items were missing. He contemplated returning to the depot, making sure the man there hadn’t touched them. But it would be getting busy by now and he was sure the crate had been tampered with en route. Maybe at Greece? Maybe before it left Beirut even. A new source was needed. He pulled a phone and pocket book from his jacket and leafed through the numbers and initials before dialling.

#

CTOC HQ, St Pancras, London

The Bexleyheath shooting had been too late for the first editions or ten o’clock TV news. The comms team had released a brief statement to the Press Association just after 10.30pm followed by a more detailed release at 11.30pm once Fletcher’s next of kin had been informed. By the time the last print editions went off stone at 1.30am, most nationals had enough for a front page and a couple inside. Feed the monster, Tennant had said and Gabriel, reluctantly, agreed. Not only did it keep the media on side, it was good for the team’s morale to have a victory in the public realm.

The tabloids had not held back. Got him! was the splash in the Herald over a picture of Fletcher’s face in the simulated cross hairs of a rifle sight. There was praise for the police, with some stories giving the wrong impression that the intention had been to bring him in dead.

Gabriel had not got home until after two, and even then, adrenaline had kept her mind busy until three. She’d stirred Ray to tell him about Fletcher, but he had merely grunted and rolled back to sleep.