His phone buzzed. The number was withheld. He put it on speaker.

‘It’s me,’ said the quiet voice. ‘You secure?’

‘All good.’

‘And Glenister?’

‘In Leeds,’ said Houghton. ‘Arrived this morning and in the safe house.’

‘Good. I need to be quick. Debrief me on Chilton Park. How come the police got hold of Fletcher’s phone?’

Houghton was thrown. He bluffed. ‘He was supposed to have ditched it,’ he said.

‘Well, he fucking didn’t ditch it, he left it behind at the theme park, hidden in a roof space. And he left incriminating messages on it – from you.’

The first outward hint of anger, thought Houghton. ‘It’s not a problem. They’ve got nothing to link him to me.’

He had been careful to ensure that. He’d found Fletcher on an incel forum, devoted to the ‘involuntary celibate’ community. The overlap between men who love to talk about killing women and those who feel the same about Muslims was conveniently large. Within six weeks they’d spoken on the phone, six weeks later they’d met face to face. They had met half a dozen times since, but always somewhere anonymous, always somewhere different.

Silence down the other end. Footsteps on wood echoed through the ceiling above Houghton, and he could hear muffled voices and the sudden sound of a TV being switched on.

‘Okay.’ The voice was warmer now. ‘It’s not been perfect – but not a crock of shit either. How are we for phase three? Everyone in position?’

‘Not a problem. I’m getting daily updates from now on – all good so far.’

‘Good – we need to keep the momentum going. Stay here another three days. I’ll let you know if the police are on to you. But from what I hear, they’re clueless. This is the dawn of something big, so let’s not fuck it up.’

Houghton gave the NRF’s traditional rallying cry. ‘To the fight back.’

‘To getting our country back, one dead foreigner at a time,’ came the reply.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

Gabriel was overwhelmed with exhaustion. She had called GCHQ to learn Abu Mujahid’s last confirmed trace was six weeks ago. She had arranged for her team to interview the six migrants, chase up the driver of the refrigerated lorry, and check up on Abu Mujahid’s family. Each decision took resources and attention off the NRF manhunt, and she knew that within a day she would get a call from on high, questioning her priorities. But she pushed those doubts deep down.

It was late. The rain had held off, so she left the office and, keen to get some air, walked past her usual bus stop at King’s Cross towards Angel, dodging the tourists in their fluorescent colours and Londoners in their drab greys and brown overcoats. Why did British people dress so miserably in the winter? thought Gabriel as she trudged towards the station. Maybe it was a form of camouflage, dress like the winter to blend in.

The job was never boring, she reflected, but there were days when things were quieter, when her role was more routine. There were weeks when all the people they had under surveillance were cooped up inside all day, doing little other than watching TV and arguing. But now, there was too much at once. Her head was struggling to contain the information. First Fletcher, then Pall Mall and the DNA hunt for the killer, and now Abu Mujahid. She wondered about her dad. Days upon end of watching the same people, focused always in the now, never having to juggle a dozen operations. She envied his life sometimes.