Shortly after 11.30am, a white van with darkened windows turned into the estate. It drove past the terraces, most now with their windows covered with grilles, pulling to one side to let a St John ambulance pass on the other side of the narrow street. The van came to a stop in an alleyway and five armed police emerged, crouching in the gap between the wall and the vehicle. They shuffled forward, rifles pointed at the ground, visors down, and waited by the gate leading into the backyard of 4 Foster Street. Another team, who had entered the estate from the rear, had the front entrance of the house in their sights.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

Two hundred miles away, the counter terrorism ops room in St Pancras was equally focused.

‘Surveillance teams are in place,’ said Campbell to Gabriel, who was prowling like a restless cat through the desks and chairs. ‘The curtains of the house are drawn. No movement inside.’

The next sixty seconds dragged interminably. Gabriel looked at her watch every few seconds. ‘Right, lads – time to go,’ she said to herself.

#

Armley, Leeds

‘Go, go, go.’ The unit stood up as one and ran forward. The officer at the front fixed in place the hydraulic door opener, a black rod-like device that clamped to the door frame, and stood back. There was a swish of air and the crackling of splintering wood as the door came off its hinges and banged to the ground. He stepped back and two colleagues barged through the doorway, turning their faces away as their flash grenades bleached the hallway with light and sent a tremendous crash echoing through the house. The first door on the right was open and the officers pushed through. Within seconds they were in a sitting room, decorated with striped scarlet wallpaper and clashing green sofas. Cardboard boxes and newspapers littered the floor, but the room was empty.

Upstairs, two officers were on the landing. There were three doors, all open, one to a milkshake-pink bathroom, two to bedrooms. The pair pushed into the bathroom and pulled back the floral shower curtain. In the bath, face down, his hands tied behind his back, lay a shirtless man, blood oozing from his temples and trickling into the plug-hole.

#

CTOC, St Pancras, London

‘What have we got?’ said Gabriel moments later.

‘One man, injured, ma’am, dumped in the upstairs bathroom and tied up,’ said a DS from the front of the ops room. ‘He’s barely conscious. Had a wallet on him. Only occupant, although the house was recently occupied.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Gabriel.

‘John Clarence, mid-fifties. Looks like he was coshed and stripped.’

‘What?’ said Gabriel. ‘Stripped of his clothes?’

‘Yes, ma’am. He was topless. Not a pretty sight, apparently.’

‘Anything else in the wallet?’ said Gabriel.

‘Driving licence, Tesco Clubcard, membership card for St John Ambulance and a library card.’

There was a clattering noise on the line and muffled voices.

‘What’s happening?’ said Gabriel.