His companion threw the holdall to the floor and pulled the hoodie away from his face. He didn’t grin.

‘One CCTV camera in the foyer – one staring right at you,’ he said.

‘Fuck off. I had the cap over my eyes. We’ll be long gone before they think to look at that.’

Glenister turned to the case on the bed and spun the combination lock, clicking the lid open and carefully lifting it up.

‘All there?’ asked Houghton.

‘Yep.’ He closed the lid, locked the case and placed it on the floor of the wardrobe.

Glenister moved to the window, pulled apart the net curtain and nudged the catch with his finger. It was stuck at first, but then came free with a squeak.

‘We need oil for that,’ said Houghton. ‘Go and get some first thing.’

They were interrupted by the ringtone of a mobile phone. Houghton pulled it out of his pocket. He waved his companion to be quiet with a hand.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi.’ The voice was quiet. ‘Is everything ready?’

‘Yes. All in place.’

‘What you are doing tomorrow is making history. It will inspire others and you should be very proud. Remember, lads. We fight with the blade, the bullet and the bomb.’ The call ended.

DAY 4

Saturday

St James’s Street, London

A balding white man with a paunch and crew cut leered at the police. He flicked a St George’s flag on a bamboo pole over their helmets as another two men, shoulders draped in Union Jacks, stood by him. Another man, his face concealed by a red scarf, held up a placard: UK First.

‘Race traitor, race traitor, race traitor!’ he screamed over the police cordon to two white women walking in the throng of peace protestors. The cry was taken up by those around him.

‘How many Muslims are shagging your kids?’ The yell came from a white middle-aged woman with blue hair and an old-school East End accent.

‘More of your cockney friends, I see,’ said Skeffington to Campbell as they stood a few metres back from the police cordon that separated the counterprotest from the main demonstration. The peace march was filing past and the air was filled with threats and curses.

‘I think they’ve also got a few bigots in the north, sir,’ replied Campbell.

‘One or two. But in the north, Campbell, most of our bile isn’t aimed at the Muslims, it’s reserved for southern wankers.’

Campbell gazed at the twisted, snarling faces of the counterprotest on the other side of the police line. Were any of these really planning something on the scale of Chilton Park? The boss seemed to think so, but it was hard to see how any of this rabble would get very far under the nose of the police and media. He shared his thoughts with Skeffington.

Skeffington raised his eyes. ‘Fuck knows. When the boss gets a bee in her fucking bonnet, logic goes out the window, Campbell. Besides, the whole world has gone crazy. If one of these guys had a jetpack on right now and decided to fly out over London shitting radioactive waste from his arse, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.’