In the sky above, the gantries of cranes are silhouetted against the city glow. The flashing light of a solitary plane high in the sky. What I would give to be in it, flying literally anywhere. But I’m stuck. And a fleshy face breathes on mine.

‘Looks like you’ve hurt yourself, young man,’ he says. ‘Steve and I will help you up.’

All the fight in me drains away. One on each side, they hoick me under my arms and more-or-less carry me back across the desolate plot. At the gap in the fence, they take no chances. Steve goes first, Ali pushes me through next, and I’m back by the railway arches, a prisoner.

Suddenly the cocktail of pain, cold and fear has me shivering uncontrollably. The black stretch Mercedes I saw earlier is parked on the other side of the street. Ali and Steve guide me across. One opens the rear door, the other ushers me inside, one hand on the top of my head so I don’t hit it on the door frame. It’s all very Met Police. If only they were the Met.

A blast of warm air hits me as I enter the limousine. I sit on the bench facing the back. Staring at me from the opposite seat is a man who looks as broad as he is tall. I’ve met him once before. There’s no mistaking the deep and brutal contours of that face under the yellow light of the ceiling lamp.

James Breitner.

Chapter 27

Chapter 27

ALMOST SOUNDLESSLY, THE CAR PULLS out. I notice that the original chauffeur is left on the pavement: one of the security men must have replaced him. The soundproofing is so complete that the lights of London are like a movie with the sound turned down. I hear the click of the doors being locked from the control panel in the front. No escape.

I face the back window, opposite Breitner. Jock Streatham sits beside me. Ali and Steve are behind a glass barrier in the front seats. I don’t know where they’re taking me, and I don’t ask. In my head I am telling myself, over and over, as an internalised chant, they’re going to kill me, they’re going to kill me, they’re going to kill me. It is my way of protecting myself against the worst that could happen. As usual, it is very important to chant it the ‘right’ number of times. Nine should do it.

Now. Jump.

‘Why did you murder Clare Peck, my sister?’

Breitner does not miss a beat or bat an eyelid. He is harder than a steel girder. I understand how he’s absorbed the stress of constructing an enormous worldwide business while being such a bogeyman for so many.