‘Help me,’ the woman gasped from the ground. Houghton knelt beside her. Her eyes were red, and she was ashen-faced.

‘You all right, love? You hurt?’

‘My leg. I can’t move my leg. I need my husband.’ She started crying. ‘I need my husband. I need him. They’ve got my phone.’

‘Here, you okay to stand, love?’ He didn’t offer to call the police but held out a hand and she grabbed it, scrabbling to stand up. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

‘I need to speak to my husband. I need him.’ She was babbling now, oblivious to Houghton. He looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight to help.

‘Let me take you into the shop, you can sit in there.’

‘I need my husband. They’ve got my phone. I must speak to him. Have you got one? I need to talk to him.’

For a moment, Houghton wavered. But the guilt he felt for not giving chase was strong. ‘Okay.’ He pulled out his mobile from a trouser pocket.

‘Can you dial it for me – my glasses…’ She waved in the direction the men had fled.

‘Sure.’ He pulled out his phone and pressed his finger on the sensor. It was so cold it took a couple of attempts for the phone to register his fingerprint and unlock.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice had changed. No longer was it croaky or whimpering. There was something almost triumphant there instead and before his brain could process the change, he was unable to move. His hands were pinned to his side from behind. He struggled, taken aback, and the woman reached out to grab the now unlocked phone from his fingers.

Houghton twisted his neck – he was in the grip of two, maybe three, men. He tried to move his head further and swore.

The woman’s transformation from vulnerable victim to triumphant victor told him everything he needed to know. She was undercover police and this charade on the streets was not just to arrest him, it was to get the phone, and get the phone unlocked.

Houghton knew enough about phone security to realise the danger he had just put the operation in. He had been careful – this was a burner that he had used only to speak to the boss and the Leeds connection. But if the police had the unlocked phone, they had everything – the location of today’s attack, the means, the names. But if he could somehow lock it before he let it slip from his hands, then the operation had a chance.

He clenched his fingers around the phone as the woman tried to prise it from him, and pulled back his arm, towards his body, surprising the man behind him. For a second, he could move his arm. He fought to get his thumb on the off button on the right-hand side of the phone. If he could just press it, the phone would be safe. Or if he could keep it out of their hands, the phone would lock itself automatically in a few seconds.