‘They’ve planned this for ages,’ he says, eyes glittering as he straightens his tie, glaring down the barrel of Mary’s camera readying opposite. ‘They must have … It’s nothing to do with us, just a tidy little bonus that it’s going to bury our trafficking story from here to the fucking moon. Screwed again by the Met … and who knew it was the anniversary? As if anyone would mark five years since an operation that’s long since been declared a total botch job.’

He prods at the earpiece in his ear, his thumbs-up to the camera at total odds with everything he’s saying.

‘So how would I know?’ Jemima hisses, balling his soaking jacket under her arm. The umbrella slips from my hand as he grabs it, framing himself in front of the lens.

‘It hardly matters now, does it? Move it, Jonas. And you, Marie, come on, I’ve got less than thirty seconds before they come to me.’

‘Marie!’ I jump as Jemima tugs on my coat, all eyebrows and fury, except I’m miles away in a rancid police cell in the dead-ends of Essex, wondering how many promises were broken, how much more there is to unravel, and what could possibly become of everyone when it does.

Jemima yanks me away just as Mary’s light beams and Dominic’s tone changes, smoothly recapping the press conference and all its revelations for the benefit of however many thousands of clueless people watching on the other end. Did any of them know before they turned on the telly that today was only ever going to be remembered as a truly historic moment for the nation, laden with symbolism and charged with emotion, as the Metropolitan Police commissioner herself reopened a multi-billion pound investigation into the British army, and took personal responsibility for its original failings, which left the country aghast with horror and the military on its knees?

‘When’s the next Essex train? Or any train that goes as far as 108Warchester?’ Jemima hisses at me, phone cocked between her shoulder and ear as Dominic keeps talking, spooling through charges amounting to a factory-line of abuse, as military in its efficiency as the organisation it lived to serve.

‘I’ll … I’ll check,’ I whisper, fumbling for my phone. ‘You mean you want to go straight from here?’

‘Go where?’ Suddenly Dominic’s at my side again, yanking out his ear piece and reaching for his coat.

‘Warchester,’ Jemima says defensively. ‘I assumed you’d want to head up straight away, work every angle you’ve got.’