Streatham and Ali turn uncertainly towards the light. Will the driver see them? Will he spot me, standing on the bridge rail looking for all the world like a man about to end it all? They are looking at the bus and it’s my only chance. I leap – not back into the river, but across to the girder on the other side of the path. Fear and adrenaline, desperation, has turned me into a circus acrobat. I grab a suspension cable to prevent myself falling and then jump onto the road. My ankle is agony but desperation has turned me into a sprinter. The noise of the bus’s engine is too close: I can smell the diesel fumes, almost feel the heat of the engine. And behind me Streatham is shouting obscenities. I daren’t look back but I can hear his leather shoes land with a snap on the road, then a terrified ‘oh fuck’, a thud, the squeal of brakes.

I look back. Streatham must have fallen flat on his face when he tried to follow me over the girders, the shiny leather soles of his immaculate loafers providing no grip. It was impossible for the double-decker to avoid him though the driver tried to swerve. The bus has come to an abrupt halt, with its front now blocking the lane for oncoming traffic.

There is a bloody heap of clothes under the chassis. Streatham. Or what was Jock Streatham.

The driver jumps out. ‘Oy, mate! Come and help me please. Help!’ I look across the bridge for Ali, but he’s scarpered. His loyalty is to Breitner and the last thing he needs is to be at the scene when the police arrive.

Passengers have got off the bus and started to gather around the body. No one is bothering to attempt CPR. I can hear the bus driver talking to base on his radio. Soon there will be police and ambulances, a thousand questions. I know I should stay. There are plenty of witnesses, so I should be safe. But I don’t feel it. Not after everything that’s happened. There will be a time for me to talk to the police. Not now. I need to run – hobble – as far away from here as is humanly possible.

In the confusion around Streatham’s corpse, I limp north. The hoardings around the scaffolding hide me from view. I’m shaking so hard that if I don’t keep moving I’ll collapse and never get up. It’s only when I’m on the far side of the bridge that I realise I’m still clutching the tape recorder. I try to remember those last exchanges with Streatham. Was there anything he said after I pressed ‘record’ that might incriminate him, or Breitner?